Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once a week, without fail, England called America. They were important allies, he told himself. He needed to stay in touch. Obviously his own personal feelings played no role in the matter.

So on a drizzly afternoon, England pressed speed dial and carefully held the phone away from his ear. America had a loud voice and an annoying habit of answering his phone with a 'Wazzup, dude?' or some other silly phrase du jour. Since complaining about how America butchered his language never did much good, England took the next best approach and turned down the volume.

"I've got it!" a child's voice called cheerfully on the other end of the line.

Moving the phone closer to his ear, England's first thought was that he had dialed the wrong number. But how was that possible? America had been on his speed dial for decades. "Hello? Who is this?" he asked.

"Ahh! Engwand! It's really you!" the child shouted.

"Ah... is Alfred there?" England asked, his frown deepening. America would have some serious explaining to do if he was letting children know about the existence of national personifications. Or perhaps it was an aggravating micronation, the American equivalent of Sealand. England hoped not. Sealand was bad enough on his own. Surely an American Sealand would be even worse.

Oblivious to England's concerns, the child continued to chatter excitedly. "Yep! Will you visit us, Engwand? Please come visit! Please, please! Oh hi Al, did you want..."

England heard shouting on the other end and then the line went dead. He stared at the receiver and tried calling again. This time he rang through to voicemail. He cleared his throat and left a message.

"Give me a call when you have a chance, Alfred. I'd like to discuss some aspects of the proposed Transatlantic trade deal," he said, carefully leaving off any mention of the child who had answered the phone. America would never call him back if he thought that England was going to give him a tongue lashing. His rants worked better as a surprise.

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When three days passed without a response, England decided that he wasn't worried, but he might have been just a bit concerned. America was an important trade partner, after all.

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By the end of the week, England found himself standing in front of America's home in Virginia, wondering why exactly he felt it necessary to cross the pond to check up on an annoying idiot. Especially when that idiot had always insisted he could take care of himself and didn't need help from an 'old man' like England.

Before he could second-guess himself further, he rang the doorbell.

Hearing America's loud footsteps, England breathed a sigh of relief. It turned into a gasp of surprise when America opened the door. America usually adopted a clean-cut boy-next-door style, but today he was dressed in ripped jeans and a black t-shirt for a punk rock band called "Anti-Flag." He looked younger than usual, probably because he wasn't wearing his glasses. England wondered vaguely if something was wrong with Texas.

"Why are you here?" America asked accusingly. He didn't wait for an answer before slamming the door in England's face.

England felt the anger rise in his stomach as he glared at the oaken door. He had taken an eight-hour flight to check up on America, and he wasn't going to allow the younger nation to respond by shoving his concern back into his face. With a quick gait, England walked around the side of the house, jumped over the white picket fence, and made his way into the backyard. He knew that America always kept the back door unlocked.

America liked everything large, so his immense backyard matched the scale of his Virginian mansion. It had been a farmstead once and still showed it, with a vegetable garden and herb garden near the kitchen door. Cattle no longer grazed on the pasture fields, though America did still keep a few horses in his paddock. England caught sight of a person in a cowboy hat leading a horse into the stables. It looked like America, but England already knew that America was in the house. Perhaps it was that nation that looked like America... what's-his-name. He frowned for a moment, then gave up on trying to remember the nation's name. It would come to him eventually.

Turning back to his original mission, England yanked open the kitchen door. He took two steps in and found America staring right back at him. England knew that it was a large house, but it still seemed strange that the blond nation had found the time to change into his bomber jacket and khaki pants while England walked from the front door to the back.

"America, what do you think you're doing?" England demanded with a scowl. He and America weren't always on the best terms, but slamming a door in his face was a new dip in their 'essential' relationship.

With a grin, America lifted up a plate holding a submarine sandwich filled with heaping amounts of sliced meat and cheese. "I'm making a hero sandwich!" he said proudly.

"No. Not that. I want some explanation for your rude behavior."

America tilted his head to the side and gave England a perplexed look. "Rude? Uh, do you want some?" he asked, offering England the sandwich.

"I'd love some and a beer to wash 'er down," a new voice drawled.

England watched as America pushed past him and walked into the kitchen dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a white shirt, and a ten-gallon hat. England gaped. He had spent very little time with America during his western phase and he'd forgotten how amazing the nation looked in a cowboy get-up. England's gaze fixated on the younger nation's chaps. The swaying fringe drew extra attention to America's butt, not that his taut behind needed any help in holding England's interest. England felt his head involuntarily turn as he watched the cowboy open the fridge and pull out a beer. Entranced by America's rear, he was taken by surprise when a small weight bowled into his legs.

"Engwand! Engwand!" a child cried, latching on to the older nation with a flying hug.

England staggered to the side and looked down to see a mop of blond hair attached to his hip. He felt his heart flip. The child looked exactly like America as a little colony. The child looked up at England with a sweet smile and his blue eyes sparkled, just like America's. England knelt down so he could look the child in the eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. "Were you the one who answered the phone?" he asked.

"Yep! I'm glad you came," the child replied brightly.

"Typical. His little colony walks into the room and England doesn't notice anyone else," a fourth person added. England looked up and saw the Anti-Flag America who had answered the door. The teenager leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He glared at the child. "Careful, Am, you've got a little brown on your nose."

England returned to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room as he protectively rested his hand on the child's shoulder. One America ate his hero sandwich, the other drank his beer, and the teenager continued to glare. This wasn't what England had been expecting when he scheduled his flight, but it seemed that America did indeed need his help. "I would like an explanation... and introductions," he said.

The America in a bomber jacket smiled. "Sure thing, England! Let me introduce America, America, and America," he said, pointing at the child, the teenager, and the cowboy. "And obviously I'm America!" he added, giving England a wide grin and a thumbs-up.

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Three more sandwiches and two beers later, England and the Americas sat around the kitchen table as the bomber-jacket-wearing-America launched into a ridiculous explanation. Naturally, America attributed his clones to alien technology and/or a communist plot. Most of it sounded like nonsense; still, England had to admit that there were four Americas running around, so something untoward must have happened. Near the end of the long-winded explanation, England decided that as a responsible nation, he had to stay to help America fix the problem. The younger nation certainly couldn't be trusted to take care of it himself. Which meant that England needed to deal with a more immediate problem:

"I can't call all of you America," he said. "I'm going to need different names."

The Americas glanced at each other, likely wondering who was going to be the America. The official bearer of the stars and spangles. The sweet land of liberty. The one of whom his country sang.

The teenager spoke first. "I'm the United States of America to you," he said, glaring at England sullenly as he claimed the most formal name.

"Big Al," the cowboy said with a wink.

"And I'm the World's Hero. But you can call me America," the America with a bomber jacket said. England decided that this America represented the World War II era. America still referred to himself as a hero in modern times, but he was slightly more subdued about it.

England glanced at the child. "What do you think about Freddie?" he suggested. He'd always called America by his country name when he was a colony, but the nickname seemed to suit the young boy.

Freddie nodded eagerly. "Sounds great, Engwand!"

"Why do you care about our names?" the United States asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Understanding slowly dawned on his face. "No! You are not staying. We don't want you, and we don't need you," he said harshly.

"I want him to stay," Freddie protested, gripping England's arm tightly.

America grinned. "Guys, guys, we're a democracy. We'll take a vote."

With three votes in favor and one against, it was decided: England was staying. The English nation allowed America to carry his suitcase up to the only empty guest bedroom (the other two had already been claimed by the other Americas) and wondered what in the world he was getting himself into.

Chapter Text

Based on a millennium of dabbling in the occult arts, England had a tried-and-true method for dealing with strange situations. He just acted like everything was normal until he found a way to reverse the spell or kill the dragon or do whatever it was he had to do. All he needed was a stiff upper lip and a strong cup of tea. Unfortunately, he lacked a key ingredient at the moment; America was famous for not stocking tea in his house other than the iced, sweetened kind.

So England's first order of business was grocery shopping.

"When was the last time you went to the store?" he demanded as he evaluated the contents of America's refrigerator. The sheer number of take-out containers didn't surprise him, but it did make him worry for poor Freddie's health.

"Uh..."

"Well, I'm going to need a few more ingredients," he said while the four Americas looked on in various states of amusement, curiosity, and alarm.

"No!" America closed the refrigerator door and stepped between England and the fridge. "I mean, you're my guest, England! You don't have to cook," he said cheerfully, though his smile looked a little strained.

The United States snorted. "Yeah, I like my food edible and my kitchen unburnt."

"You might be willing to eat this rubbish, but I am not," England told America, keeping his gaze fixed on the one with the bomber jacket as he pointedly ignored the other's insult to his cooking. "I need tea, and you need more fruits and vegetables."

"And the beer's running low," Al chimed in.

"Can I get ice cream?" Freddie shamelessly begged as he tugged on England's trousers.

Gazing down at those innocent blue eyes, England felt a soft smile spread across his face. His heart warmed as he remembered how America had depended on him and looked up to him in times long past. America was always happy just to see him and spend time together back when he was a child. "We'll see," was England's response, though everyone in the room knew he would eventually cave in. Unless representation in parliament was at stake, England had never been good at saying no to his sweet little colony.

Even the grumbling teenager came along as they piled into America's SUV. For once, England was grateful for America's obsession with big cars. The size of the car meant that there was plenty of room in the back seat for him to sit between Freddie and Al.

At least, England started out with plenty of space. By the time America had backed out of the long driveway, both Freddie and Al were pressed up against his sides. Freddie gave him an adoring smile while Al just winked and casually brushed his hand along England's thigh. The light touch sent a pleasant shiver up England's spine. Al was so close that England could practically smell the sunshine and fresh-cut hay, not to mention that hint of musk he thought of as distinctly America.

England didn't know whether to smile or blush. It had always been a little awkward to think of his sweet America and his sexy America at the same time, and now they were sitting right next to him, both vying for his attention. A blush rose in his cheeks as his unspoken attraction to the handsome man America had become threatened to overwhelm his fond memories of taking care of a much younger America.

"Engwand, are you sunburnt?" Freddie asked innocently.

"I'll turn up the AC!" America promised from the driver's seat. A stream of cold air shot out from the vents. And a second later a burst of loud punk music distracted England from his uncomfortable seating situation.

"I think you mean AC/DC," the United States snarked. He had fiddled with the radio station until he found rock and then turned the volume up to eleven.

America rolled his eyes, lifted one hand from the wheel, and turned the volume back down. "Hey, I'm the driver. I get to pick the music."

"Pfft. Your taste sucks. You like Nickelback," the United States grumbled.

"Hero is a great song! And you didn't have to come with us, you know."

"You always forget the hard cider if I stay home."

England blinked. "Are you even old enough to drink?" he asked. He knew that America carried a fake driver's license in modern times, but he didn't think the younger teen would be able to convince anyone that he was old enough to drink.

"I'm 237 years old!" the U.S. protested.

"Ah, let the kid have his liquor. Now how about some honky-tonk country?" Al drawled, taking the opportunity to drape his arm on the headrest behind England. England tried not to think about how the cowboy felt so warm and solid next to him. Instead, while the three older Americans squabbled over music, England turned his attention back to Freddie. There was so much he wished he had done with America when he had the chance. Now he had another opportunity to spend time together and he wasn't going to waste it.

"So Freddie, what would you like to do while I'm here?" he asked the child.

"Ah!" The boy's eyes lit up. "Can we go to Wiwie's burg?"

"Williamsburg? Yes, of course," England readily agreed, pleased that America had chosen an educational activity. Though Colonial Williamsburg was filled with inaccuracies, England appreciated the effort they made to keep the past alive.

"And Busch Gardens! It's got rides!"

"Certainly," England agreed to that request as well, though the amusement park's European theme was even less accurate than Colonial Williamsburg. But that didn't matter. He just completely lost the ability to say no when America gazed up at him adoringly with that sweet, innocent smile.

Before England knew it, they had arrived at a grocery store parking lot so large it probably had its own zip code. He held Freddie's hand to keep the boy from getting lost as they walked through the humungous store. Shopping with the Americas was an adventure. Freddie added ice cream and treats to the shopping cart while England added fruits and veggies and pretended that he didn't notice. The other three Americas split off on their own separate tasks, returning to load up the cart with pizza, crisps, and beer.

"You know, the goal was healthy food," England said to Freddie with a sigh when he realized the cart was more junk food than not.

"Ice cream is healthy! It's got milk."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, lad."

Al came up behind England and tossed a box of condoms into the cart. "Hey, if you're worried about workin' off the calories, I can take you on a nice long ride later," he offered with another one of his seductive winks.

England opened his mouth, intending to demand who Al thought the condoms were for, but he remembered Freddie's proximity just in time. While the colony was still distracted by the colorful boxes of breakfast cereal, England moved a few items to hide the condoms from the boy's innocent eyes. America arrived moments later and tossed hamburger buns into the cart.

"I'm done!" Freddie declared as he stood up on his tippy-toes to drop the sugary cereal into the cart.

"Me too." Al gave England a wink. "See anything else you want?"

"Uh," England paused, distracted by Al's sexy grin, before he remembered the whole point of the grocery run. "Tea! Let me grab some boxes and we'll be done."

"I know the way!" America proclaimed, leading them halfway across the grocery store until they reached the coffee aisle. "See, coffee and tea!"

Unsurprisingly, the paltry selection of tea was hidden in a small section between the coffee and hot cocoa. What was surprising was that they arrived to find the United States studying the different options. He flushed guiltily when he noticed them approach. Without meeting England's gaze, he grabbed a box of Irish breakfast tea and tossed it into the shopping cart.

"You're buying tea?" England asked with a raised eyebrow as he grabbed a box of English breakfast tea and chamomile for his own consumption. His frown deepened. "I hope you're not planning a party."

Freddie smiled. "I like parties!"

"Well, how about you and I have a party?" the United States proposed, smirking at England as he lifted Freddie into his arms, balancing the cheerful child on his hip.

"We'll invite Engwand!"

"I don't think England likes those sort of tea parties."

England felt a cold stab of sorrow as he remembered the last time he lost his colony. The joy of their time together made it that much harder to cope when they were ripped apart. He nearly jumped when a warm hand gently squeezed his shoulder.

America gave him a comforting smile. "Hey, ignore him. Let's go home and you can have some tea and go to bed early. You must be jet-lagged, right?"

"Yeah, let's get this show on the road!" Al agreed, effortlessly pushing the loaded shopping cart to the front of the store.

Checkout went smoothly despite Al's efforts to flirt with the cashier. She ignored him and didn't even blink an eye as she bagged the condoms. England breathed a sigh of relief when Freddie remained distracted by the candy on the other side of the checkout lane. The three older Americas filled their arms with bags (each grabbing their own favorite food) and started carrying them to the SUV.

"Need any help carrying bags out to your car?" the cashier asked in a bored tone.

England shook his head. "Thank you, miss, we're good."

"Oooh, you're British!" Her look of boredom disappeared.

"English, yes."

"You guys have such cute accents."

"Er... thank you?" Hoping to make a quick escape, England grabbed the last of the shopping bags. The majority were soon tugged out of his hands by Freddie.

"Let me carry some!" The boy happily lifted shopping bags that weighed more than he did and eagerly helped load them into the spacious trunk. Piled in the back of the SUV, it looked like enough food to supply an army for a month. But knowing America's appetite, they would be back to the grocery store within a week. Assuming, of course, that England hadn't solved the problem of the four Americas by then.

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Despite the protests, England cooked dinner. He wanted the Americas to have a nourishing home-cooked meal before they went back to pizzas and hamburgers. As the five sat down together at the dining table, at least Freddie appreciated his efforts.

"This is dewicious, Engwand!" the child said, still chewing food in his mouth.

"Wait to speak until you've finished chewing," England gently corrected, though he smiled happily at the compliment.

"It certainly is... crispy," America managed to say as he heroically finished his meal.

The United States pushed away his plate. "I think I'm going to gag."

"Well, you needn't eat with us if you'd rather be in your room writing bad poetry and brooding about how no one understands you," England tartly replied. He had forgotten how annoying America could be in his little anti-authoritarian snits.

Al grinned. "His poetry ain't that bad. He actually does sonnets."

"When were you in my room?" the United States demanded angrily.

"When you forgot to turn off your alarm clock."

"God. I hate all of you."

Freddie paused before he took another bite. "Even me?" he asked as his lips quivered and tears began to well in his eyes.

The others fell silent while the United States' mouth opened and closed. The teenager's expression softened and he shook his head. "No, Am. Of course not. You're a good kid," he said as he reached across the table and mussed the boy's hair. "Just a little too trusting." The scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor was the only sound in the room as the United States left the table and the room.

"So..." America broke the silence. "Who wants ice cream?"

Freddie clasped his hands together and smiled, the earlier tension and unhappiness instantly forgotten. "Me, me, me!" he said.

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After dessert, England carried the content, sleepy child up to bed. He tucked the boy under the sheets and read him a bedtime story until he was fast asleep.

Lost in memories of all the times he had read stories to his little America centuries ago, England remained seated on the bed for a long time after he finished the story and just watched the child sleep. Thinking of his early years with America usually carried an undercurrent of sadness, but this time it felt like he had been given a second chance to fix their relationship. This time he could watch over America and help him return to normal. This time there would be no more bad memories to dilute his happiness.

He leaned over and kissed Freddie softly on the forehead. "Don't worry, love, I'm going to help you fix this."

"Engwand?" the child blinked sleepily. "Stay with me?"

"Of course, lad." England didn't need any further encouragement to crawl into bed next to the boy. It was still early, but he was jet-lagged. And he missed this heart-warming sensation of being wanted and needed. Lulled to sleep by Freddie's soft breathing, England's last thought for the night was that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he couldn't find a way to return America to normal.

Chapter Text

"Engwand. Engwand."

"Hmm?" England rolled over and blinked sleepily at the smiling, energetic child. "Go back to sleep, Freddie," he murmured.

"I can't! You're here, so we've got to play!"

Giving in to the inevitable, England followed the child downstairs and drank his tea while Freddie watched early morning cartoons. Fortunately, breakfast proved to be much less tense than dinner, mostly because the United States was still sleeping.

England occasionally fantasized about what it would be like to spend a wonderful night with America and then stay the next morning for breakfast. He dreamt of morning kisses, showering together, and breakfast in bed. He had never considered the possibility that their morning together would involve early morning cartoons, though he probably should have. When Freddie was sufficiently distracted, England decided that it was time to delve head-first into discovering why there were four Americas when there should be only one. The Americas were entirely too calm about their predicament. It made England suspect that they knew something they weren't telling him.

Leaving his empty tea cup in the sink, England strolled out the back door into America's low-maintenance garden. Aside from the kitchen herbs, it mostly consisted of shrubs and trees. But the boxwood and magnolias were in bloom, decorating the backyard in pretty blossoms. The path led to the stables, which naturally led to Al. Despite the early hour, the young man was already hard at work. England paused at the stable door to openly admire Al's rippling muscles, strong arms, and tight jeans.

England must have spent a little too long staring because he found himself greeted by a smirk from Al when the young man finally turned around and noticed England's attention. "Howdy there. Did you come to collect on the ride I promised ya?" he asked with a wink as he added a new layer of straw bedding to the stalls.

"I'm just enjoying the fresh air," England replied smoothly. Without Freddie around to make him feel guilty, it was easier to accept that Al was flirting with him and to admit, at least to himself, that he was enjoying it. Immensely. Numerous questions about what exactly Al intended with all of his winking danced on England's lips, but he refused to give the cowboy any satisfaction by asking them. Instead he stepped near one of the stalls and offered his hand to the friendly mare. "I didn't know you still kept horses."

Al smiled fondly and for once he was more focused on the horses than his flirting. "Ginny and George stay with the neighbors most the time, but I like to take 'em out when I've got some free time," he said. "Nothing like a good ride to clear your head."

"I quite agree," England replied, enjoying the feeling of familiarity as he gently scratched the mare's neck. He had ridden horses to war, used them as transportation throughout the ages, and continued to maintain his riding skills on his own estates. Their presence in his life was one of the rare constants in a rapidly changing world.

"Got an English saddle if ya want."

"Really?" England paused mid-scratch to glance at Al in surprise.

The cowboy leaned his pitchfork against the wall and grinned. By way of response, he grabbed the saddle from the hook and placed it on the mare. He casually brushed against England as he tightened the straps, and then brushed past him again as he left to saddle the other horse Western-style. Sooner than England expected, they were ready for a ride that he had never actually agreed to. A pleasant expectancy hung in the air between them, making England's heart beat a little faster when he caught Al glancing his way. It would be a lie to say that England had never thought about kissing America (and more...). But he'd never actually thought that there was a real possibility that America wanted to kiss him back. So it felt strange and exhilarating that Al seemed more than happy to promise him a roll in the hay.

Despite the blood pounding in his veins, England strove for calm. "Is there still that charming brook in the north meadow?" he asked, hoisting himself up into the saddle in a single, smooth motion. He relaxed into his seat, glad that Al wasn't making him use a bulky Western saddle.

"Yep! Still flowing strong," Al replied as he tightened the strap around his horse's girth.

"Lovely. I'll meet you there." England urged his horse into a trot out of the stable and then a full gallop across the meadow. He laughed as he heard Al yell from far behind. But England was a light rider on a fast horse and he had no trouble keeping the lead. The wind whipped through his messy locks as he bent forward over the horse's neck. He spotted the fence at the edge of the field. Instead of taking a detour through the gate, he urged the mare to her fastest gallop. He felt her muscles bunch beneath his legs as she leapt over the old fence, clearing it by a good margin.

England was still chuckling to himself when he reached the brook. It was as pretty as he remembered. Bright wildflowers dotted the banks on either side of the gurgling stream. Songbirds sang overhead. Smiling to himself, England dismounted and tied his reins to a tree, giving the mare just enough lead to drink from the stream.

"That was cheating," Al huffed when he arrived a few moments later, slightly out of breath from trying to catch up. England found himself admiring the way the young man's cheeks were slightly pink from the wind and his hair tousled beneath his hat.

"You're just a sore loser," England replied playfully.

"Yeah? We'll see who's sore later." Hanging his cowboy hat on the pommel of his saddle, Al left the horses tied together. He grinned over his shoulder as he stripped off his plaid shirt. While England watched, Al dipped the cloth into the stream and wrung it out over his head, leaving his bare chest glistening with water. Each muscle was toned, tanned, and perfectly defined. England watched as a droplet of water slid down Al's pectorals, along his perfect six-pack, until it disappeared into his low-slung jeans. He licked his lips and wished he could trace its path with his finger. It wasn't until he looked up again that he saw Al's stupid, sexy smirk. Other than his tight jeans and dirty boots, it was the only thing the American was wearing as he stepped closer. "You look like you could use a tall drink of water," he purred.

Feeling off-balance, England tried to regain his calm. "Put your shirt back on!" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

"Sorry, I can't help it," the American said as he cupped England's cheek with one hand. "You're too damn hot."

"I..." England blinked stupidly, shocked by the direct flattery.

"Your ass looks damn fine in a saddle, and you've got spitfire in your eyes." Al leaned a little closer. "Your legs go on forever and so could I."

England wondered briefly if he had actually woken up that morning or if he was still in a glorious dream. Because the thought of America actually desiring him had always felt like an impossible dream. And now America was shirtless and practically begging him for a kiss. Not caring if it was a dream or reality, England closed the distance between them. He molded his body against Al's firm chest (which felt as amazing as it looked) as they pressed their lips together in a passionate embrace. He was overcome by a wave of vertigo a second later as Al twisted him and dipped him backwards toward the ground. The hungry kisses lasted long enough to rob England of his breath and his senses. He wondered dizzily to himself, when had America become such a good kisser?

What felt like a wonderful eternity later, Al returned England to an upright position. Both caught their breath as they pulled away, giving England another eyeful of Al's rippling chest. America was certainly handsome, but this wasn't really America, was it? England frowned as he remembered the morning's objective. For goodness sake, he was supposed to be questioning the handsome young man, not snogging him!

"This doesn't feel right," England said, gently pushing Al away.

Al pouted. "It felt pretty damn good to me."

"No, I meant..." England bit off the thought, not willing to admit that he was worried about what the real America would think. He mentally kicked himself, realizing that he should have considered the long-term consequences for his 'special relationship' before he kissed America's exceedingly attractive look-alike.

"You worried about Mr. Hero? He won't care." A smile began to spread across Al's face. "Or were you thinking about someone else?"

"I'm merely thinking of propriety," England lied.

"Sure ya are." Al whistled to himself as he pulled on his damp shirt. It didn't do much good; England could still see each muscle through the thin, wet cotton. Al untied his horse's reins, donned his 10-gallon hat, and hopped into the saddle. "Don't worry, England. I can see when someone else has got me beat."

England frowned. Al's smug expression told him that the young man knew something. But Al was already leaving and England had learned nothing other than that the American was a good kisser. Which was a wonderful piece of knowledge that England would treasure in his heart forever, but not very helpful to the present predicament. "What happened to the real America?" he demanded.

"Sorry, darling. I don't kiss and tell," Al said. He tipped his hat at England and then spurred his horse up the bank of the stream.

"That's not even what that saying means," England muttered.

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England returned to the kitchen in a foul mood. He had learned nothing new from Al and although the kiss was a nice consolation price, he might have permanently ruined his difficult-to-define relationship with America. He was a little sweaty, a little hungry, and very much annoyed.

To England's relief, at least the other Americas seemed to be acting normal when he entered the kitchen. They gave England barely a nod as they continued slurping their sodas and eating their hamburgers. Perhaps Al did know the true meaning of the phrase 'kiss and tell' and was merely being an annoying smart aleck.

"Engwand! Do you wanna Big Mac?" Freddie asked, gesturing to the pile of wrapped hamburgers at the center of the table.

The United States rolled his eyes. "He doesn't want that processed crap."

It was a good thing that England hadn't started drinking his cup of tea, or he would have spit it out in shock. "You don't like hamburgers?!" he asked, staring at the U.S. in shock.

"Hamburgers are fine, but I don't want something made with pink slime."

"Well, if you and Engwand don't want one, I can have another!" Freddie bit into a new burger and promptly made a face of disgust. "Ew, mustard."

"Just stick it in the machine," America suggested.

England continued staring at the U.S. as Freddie rushed out of the kitchen with his burger. The teenager's love of tea, punk rock, and poetry was starting to make him wonder. "Are you sure you're really America?" he demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

"You don't believe me?" The United States didn't seem offended; he seemed amused. "I remember when you took me sailing for the first time on the James River and I fell off the boat. You spent an hour yelling at me to get back in, but I was having too much fun to listen."

"You caught a cold afterward."

"It was worth it."

England leaned back and relaxed his fists. He and America rarely discussed colonial times, so he was surprised that the teen remembered something from so long ago. He was also surprised that it seemed to be a fond memory for America; England had been terrified at the time that America wouldn't be able to swim on his own. Despite his strange tastes in food and music, it seemed that this American was as genuine as the others.

Freddie returned to the kitchen with a burger in one hand and a dollop of mustard on the other side of his plate. He munched happily, and Al and America joined him in devouring the mountain of hamburgers.

"Al said you went on a nice ride this morning," America said between bites, a guileless look on his face. "Sure is pretty weather."

"Mmm," England replied noncommittally, avoiding Al's smug gaze and the United States' look of annoyance. Taking the approach that seemed to work best, he focused on Freddie. "Would you like to go to the amusement park today?" he suggested.

"Yeah, let's do all the rides!" Freddie said gleefully.

"Sounds good to me," America agreed. "Too bad they don't still give out free beer samples," he added nudging England.

They voted on it, and this time the vote was unanimous. As England packed the sunscreen and other essentials, he kept his gaze on America. Despite getting to first base, he had struck out in his attempt to question Al. But he knew who he intended to question next. After all, weren't heroes supposed to be honest and forthcoming?

Chapter Text

"Now arriving... Busch Gardens!" America declared from the driver's seat. England looked out the window and over the treetops could tell that the park was huge. From what America had explained, it was laid out into several different sections, each inspired by a different European country. Some sounded more interesting than others. Obviously, England planned to skip the French section.

"I think we can use the season pass for all of us," the United States suggested as they hopped out of the car. "If anyone asks, we're triplets."

"They're going to think you're the runt of the litter," Al teased.

The U.S. rolled his eyes. "You're just taller because you're wearing boots."

England glanced at the cowboy boots, which led his eyes to Al's long, lean legs. After a short intake of breath, he forced his gaze back to the ground, which seemed safer than the alternatives. Though England normally paid more attention to traffic, he was still a little spacey from his kiss and sitting so close to Al during the car ride hadn't helped matters. He raised one foot to step off the sidewalk and then stumbled backwards as America frantically grabbed him by the back of his shirt. A car whizzed past seconds later. England regained his balance and turned around to find America giving him a look of concern.

"You okay there?" America asked, his eyes dark with worry.

"Just forgot to check the right side," England said as the initial rush of adrenaline passed. "Thank you."

"No problem." America grinned. "It's what heroes do!" He grabbed England's hand and held it the rest of the way as they crossed the parking lot, despite England's protests that he didn't need a nanny. But England was also happy when Freddie grabbed his other hand. The two hands were very different, but both felt perfect in his own.

The first stop inside the park was fashioned to resemble London, complete with a fake Big Ben (technically Elizabeth Tower, he always reminded tourists), red telephone booths, and replica Globe Theatre. England thought it was too kitschy, but the other visitors seemed to enjoy it, snapping pictures in front of the iconic booths. Unfortunately, the next area was filled with Scottish flags and tartan patterns. England sighed and wrinkled his nose at the thought of his annoying older brother. It seemed that everyone in this area was queuing for a roller coaster ride. Given its undulating twists and turns, the ride at the center of the Scottish area was appropriately named the Loch Ness Monster.

"I want to go on that one!" Freddie cried, excitedly pulling England forward by the hand. "Pwease!"

"I don't think you're tall enough, lad," England said sadly, pointing to the cardboard cutout of Nessie declaring that riders had to be four-feet tall. Even stretching to his full height, Freddie was a half-foot short.

"Oh." The boy sniffed. "Well, I can wait here."

England smiled and hugged the sweet child. "You know, I don't really care for the big rides. How about you and I visit the Land of Dragons?"

"Really?" Freddie's eyes widened in delight.

"Of course." England turned to look at the Americas. He had wanted to spend some time trying to learn more about what happened to the original America. But making sure that Freddie had fun was also important. He quickly made up his mind, deciding that they wouldn't have had much of an opportunity to talk on the roller coaster anyway. "Well then, we'll meet you at the dodgem cars in two hours," he announced.

Al turned to the teenage United States and grinned. "Think we can get all the big rides done in two hours?" he drawled.

"Ours but to try," the U.S. replied.

England snorted, wondering when America had started reading Tennyson. But before he could ask, Freddie eagerly grasped his hand and began to tug him away from the others. They had crossed a bridge beneath the coaster and were approaching a giant dragon statue when America caught up with them. "Someone's got to make sure you don't step in front of any more cars," he explained as he gave England a bright smile.

Despite the flimsy excuse, England smiled back. He wasn't going to say no if America wanted to spend more time with him. Even if it wasn't the real America.

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Playing with Freddie and America in the dragon-themed play area was more fun than England would have expected. They boarded a Ferris Wheel with seats in the shape of dragon eggs, giving them a magnificent view of the park. Despite the development, the thick canopy of trees reminded England of the primeval forests of his youth. Speaking of youth, Freddie reacted to everything with delight, and his enthusiasm was infectious. England laughed as the boy splashed his way through geysers and waterfalls, searching for the serpent that supposedly hid in the area. As he watched Freddie explore a three-story treehouse, England found himself smiling more than he had in years.

And even though he and America often traded insults when working together in modern times, he found that spending time with this America was very pleasant. Although he was still a little too cocksure, the young man seemed to exemplify many of the best traits of his favorite superheroes. Despite his confidence that he was always right, he was also kind and always looking to protect others.

So when a little girl shrieked and nearly fell out of the tall treehouse, England wasn't surprised to see America help her down and return her to grateful parents. Even more endearingly, the younger nation blushed a bright red when England complimented him on being "quite the hero."

It felt wonderful to spend time with an America who was well-mannered and solicitous. After the near traffic accident, the young man had apparently decided to treat England as his damsel in distress for the day. Despite being neither a damsel nor in distress, England didn't mind the kind behavior and soft smiles. It was almost as if they were courting. The proper courtship that England remembered fondly, with shy glances and bashful hand-holding. It made England sigh wistfully for days long past.

England had considered courting America before, but every interaction with the other country reminded him why it was a bad idea. America insulted his cooking, called him old, and dismissed his fairies. When England suggested spending more time together, America pushed him away. When all was said and done, they were allies, nothing more. So England told himself not to get his hopes up when this America smiled at him or looked at him with a warm gaze. It was probably a side effect of America's predicament. England would just have to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Look at me!" Freddie called cheerfully from his spot on the carousel.

England smiled and waved back. He noticed someone approach him from the side, but relaxed when he realized it was just America. The weather was a little too warm for jackets, but that never seemed to stop America.

"Tuppence for your thoughts?" the young man asked, letting his shoulder brush against England's as they watched the carousel spin.

"Seems an awful lot to offer. I haven't used that coin since 1971, so it's probably rather valuable now," England teased. "Are you sure you can pay up?" He glanced over at America and caught the other nation's fond smile.

"Hey, now, my debts aren't that bad."

"Well they're certainly more than tuppence." England watched as the carousel began to slow down. "Though right now I'm wondering where you learned that word."

"Mary Poppins. I always loved that song, you know. Walt did too." America bumped his shoulder against England's. "But I wanted to know what you were thinking before I asked."

"I was thinking about you, actually," England admitted. "Well, the four of you. I wish I knew what was going on."

America shifted uncomfortably. "It's not anything bad," he said.

"You can tell me. I want to help."

A giggling Freddie chose that moment to barrel into England's legs and hug him tightly, begging him for another ride on the dragon-themed carousel.

America took advantage of the distraction to look down at his watch. "Oh, wow, look at the time! We're going to be late for bumper cars!"

Dodgems was... not England's cup of tea. It jostled his head and bruised his back. The Americas seemed to have fun ramming into each other and hitting everyone else, mostly by mistake. Oddly, the United States and America were particularly keen to crash their cars together. Something was going on between those two that England didn't understand. When they finally finished, England breathed a sigh of relief and suggested that it might be nice to get a drink and sit down.

"But there are still more rides!" Freddie protested. "And I haven't seen the ponies!"

"Ponies?" Al perked up. He grinned and offered to watch Freddie for the next hour. He even winked at England as he left, which was strange.

Despite that oddity, England was grateful the child was so easily distracted, allowing him and America to walk over to a German-themed place selling pretzels and beer. England skipped the pretzels and went straight for the beer. The U.S. followed them, although he was left sulking at the bar with a soda after he realized that America had the fake I.D. and he was too young to use it anyway.

"He doesn't seem to like you," England commented, wondering if it was simply because of the fake I.D. or had its roots in something deeper.

America shrugged and sipped his beer. "We don't agree on much. He says superheroes are an oversimplistic depiction of the jingoistic belief that might makes right, created and popularized to justify the hegemony of American imperialism."

"What?" England nearly dropped his glass of beer.

"Yeah, I don't know what he meant either. I told him that superheroes are awesome," America's grin faded to a somber look. "And I don't like the way he treats you either, always pushing you away. He has no right to be so rude."

"He's no worse than the real America, I assure you." England chuckled and sipped his beer. The place was at least authentic enough to serve the alcohol only slightly chilled, not like frozen American beers.

America looked like he wanted to say something, but he took a sip of his beer instead.

It turned out that skipping the pretzels was a bad idea. Although England wouldn't admit it, his tolerance was low to start with, and almost nonexistent if he didn't eat. "You're me best mate," he slurred four beers later, wrapping an arm around America's shoulder,

"Ah, thanks. You're my best friend too, England," America replied, trying to pull England's glass out of his reach. But England saw through the young man's tricks and downed the liquid before it could be stolen.

The bartender promptly cleared away England's empty glass. "The park will be closing in thirty minutes," he warned. "Need anything else?"

"Ye—" England began.

"NO," America interrupted, giving the bartender a glare.

England sniffled, depressed at the loss of alcohol. Alcohol was his only friend. No, wait, America was his only friend. "Prolly my only friend," he mumbled.

"Please don't cry," America said softly. England started to wonder if his kisses were equally soft. Al's kiss had been hungry and passionate and amazing, but England wanted something comforting, something to ease his loneliness. His tipsy mind, emboldened by a lack of inhibitions, suddenly saw an upside to America's predicament. It was almost like a pick-his-own-America adventure.

Alcohol was sometimes called Dutch courage, but in his tipsy moments England thought it could be called English courage too. He draped his other arm around America, nearly knocking them off the stools. "America," he breathed. And then he kissed him, sweet and gentle as a spring rain. England felt light-headed and giddy. The kiss was so wonderful it made the room spin, and then everything went black.

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England felt someone buckle him into a car seat and place a heavy jacket over his body. It was soft and warm and smelled of America. As his eyes flickered open, he could see a child buckled into the seat next to him. The boy was sound asleep, although he was conked out from too much excitement and rides, as opposed to too much alcohol. Three people were talking, but it took a while for the words to pierce his foggy brain, and even then they didn't make much sense.

"It doesn't count," one voice protested.

"Ah, you're just jealous he ain't kissed you yet."

"He was drunk, he could have thought that he was kissing anyone."

"Pretty sure he said 'America,'" the voice next to England replied. The man chuckled softly and England could feel the motion from the arm resting behind his shoulders.

"Yeah, but what does that prove?"

Some part of England knew the conversation was about him. He wanted to add a contribution, but the only words that tumbled out of his mouth were, "'m not drunk."

"Uh-huh," the America next to him replied, tightening the arm that was circled around England's shoulders. "Go back to sleep."

England blinked owlishly at the America in the driver's seat and the America in the passenger's seat. Blanking on the past couple days, his last thought before he passed out completely was that he had drunk too much if he was seeing triple.

Chapter Text

England woke up with a full bladder, a pounding headache, and a nasty taste in his mouth. He stumbled to the guest bathroom to find relief for all three.

"I am never drinking again," he swore as he began his search for the pain pills. America's cabinets had far too many bottles (including several filled with diet pills sold only on late-night television), but soon enough England found the Tylenol. He knew that it was bad for his liver, but so was drinking, and that hadn't stopped him from a millennium of overindulgence. (In his defense, beer and wine had been safer than water for most of his history The habit had stuck.) As he brushed his teeth with America's bubblegum-flavored toothpaste, he heard a derisive snort from the hallway.

"Geez, you look like hell," the United States said with his usual level of tact.

"Oh, piss off," England muttered as he spat out the toothpaste and examined his haggard appearance in the mirror. He did look like hell, and he felt like hell too. He groaned and rubbed his temples. "It's too early in the morning to deal with your shit."

"Hey, if you don't want to deal with me, you can just go home." The U.S. gave England a smug glance. "And you actually slept through the morning. It's already after noon."

"Then it's too bloody early in the afternoon!" England snapped, shutting the bathroom door in the teen's face. He grumbled to himself as he stripped down for a shower, tugging off his clothes with unnecessary force and nearly ripping his trousers. The U.S. reminded him of everything he hated about America: the insults, the hurtful comments, and the painful memories. Even a gentle shower couldn't calm his temper, though he did feel marginally better as the pain medication took effect. As much as he enjoyed the other Americas' company, he was heartily annoyed with the teenager's attitude.

Wrapped in a towel, England returned to his bedroom to find a steaming cup of tea waiting for him. Probably America's work, he decided, given their pleasant flirting from the day before. He took a sip and was surprised by the quality of the brewing. America had accidentally used the Irish breakfast tea, but it was otherwise well-steeped. He would have to thank the young nation and then ask him for an accounting of the previous night's activities. England's memories were still a blur.

Taking care not to move too quickly, lest his headache return, England picked his clothes for the day and cautiously made his way downstairs to the kitchen. His stomach still felt queasy, but he thought he could manage a slice of toast and another cup of tea. He found Al and America waiting for him.

"Heard you were up," Al drawled. "Want some hair of the dog?" he offered, holding up a silver flask. He shook it slightly, making the contents swish.

"Ignore him," America called from behind the stove. "I'm making bacon and eggs!"

As tempting as the offer of alcohol was, England waved away the flask. "Ah, I'd better not," he said. He knew that more alcohol was just a recipe for disaster, not a cure for a hangover.

"More hooch for me, I guess." Al took a swig and set the flask back onto the table with a satisfied thunk, drying his lips with the back of his hand. He grinned at England. "You don't look so good, partner. Weren't you supposed to protect him, Mr. Hero?"

"Hey!" America protested. "Heroes protect people from villains, not their own choices."

"Maybe beer is England's kryptonite."

America's eyes widened. "Shit, I think you're right!"

The shouting made England's head begin to throb again. He sighed and rested his forehead against the table. "Could you please argue more quietly?"

"Sorry," the identical nations replied from opposite ends of the kitchen. America returned to his frying pan and Al took another swig of his flask. After a few minutes of blissful silence allowed his headache to dissipate, England lifted his head to find Al giving him a sly grin. The young man caught his gaze and winked. "You know, I've got another cure for a hangover you might be interested in," he purred.

England felt his throat go dry. The offer was even more tempting than the flask, though he knew it was an equally bad idea. He had to think of the international repercussions, but it was hard to focus while Al was giving him a once-over with those beautiful baby blues.

"England! I made you a cup of tea," America said proudly, setting the mug down with a loud clatter right in front of England.

The English nation pulled back and gave America a genuine smile. Even in his hungover state, he could tell the two were fighting over him. He rather liked the jealousy, especially if it came with a side of tea. "Another one? Thank you, America."

"Huh?" America blinked.

Despite that strange reaction, England took a sip and nearly spit out the brew because of the overpowering sweetness. He forced himself to keep a smile on his face as he set the tea back onto the table.

America smiled. "Do you like it?" he asked eagerly.

"It's a bit sweet," England replied in the understatement of the year. He stared at the cup. It went against everything he believed in to pour tea down the drain, but he didn't think he could actually drink it. Gazing into the swirling liquid of the cup, a thought nagged in the back of his mind. Something about food... something that could help him. "I don't suppose there's a way to take out the sugar?"

"You mean use the machine?"

"Yes, precisely." England nodded as the memory came to him. Though he had been distracted at the time, he distinctly remembered Freddie removing mustard from his hamburger. Perhaps the same machine could be used to salvage his tea. To his surprise, America readily agreed. Tea cup in hand, America led England to a glowing gray machine in the computer room, a place that England normally avoided if possible since it was also the lair of America's alien friend. But there was no Tony today.

America opened the door to reveal an immaculate interior that was larger than it seemed from the outside. He set the tea inside, closed the door, and pressed a few buttons. "Ta-da!" he said, opening the door to reveal a cup of tea and a saucer coated in sugar.

"Oh, my." England stared, feeling the pieces click into place. "It can separate something into its component parts," he said, thinking aloud.

"Sort of."

"Removing mustard from a burger and sugar from tea."

"Yep."

"Does it only work on food?"

"Oh no, it can do lots of stuff!" America said, proud to show off his latest toy.

"I see." England arched an eyebrow. "And does it work on nations?"

America's smile froze. "Uh..."

"You used it on yourself!" England accused, rounding on America. "What were you thinking?"

"Well..."

"I'll tell you what," England jabbed a finger in America's face. "You weren't thinking at all! You just went ahead with one of your mad ideas and crazy experiments, not caring if you hurt yourself or messed up the global economy or made me worry." His head throbbed as spikes of pain lanced behind his eyeballs.

"Hey, I didn't expect it to make four of us!"

"You stepped into alien technology having no idea what it would do to you, and you expect me to think that makes it better?!" England yelled, ignoring the pain. He needed America to understand that what he had done was very reckless and stupid.

"It's not dangerous!" America protested. "It was a gift from Tony."

"And is that supposed to reassure me? Because it doesn't. I've never liked that vulgar creature, and you're a fool for trusting him."

By that point their shouting had gathered an audience of Americas. Al took another swish of his flash while Freddie watched with a worried look, like a child who had seen his parents arguing for the first time. The U.S. crossed his arms and glared at England. "Don't get mad, old man. The machine worked the way it was supposed to. I've got the situation under control."

England tossed his hands into the air. "Well, I'll just leave it to you then and go home. I'm sure you can find a cure for the fact that you're a bloody idiot." He groaned, rubbing his temples as the pain multiplied. "I don't know why I even bother sometimes."

The room was nearly silent for a moment as Freddie sniffled and burst into tears. "Don't leave me!" he wailed pitifully.

"No!" England was at the boy's side in an instant. "No, no, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean that. Please don't cry," he said soothingly as he lifted the child into his arms. Freddie burrowed against England's chest, shaking as he continued to cry.

"Good job, England," the U.S. said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

England glared at the teenager and turned his attention back to Freddie. After a few moments of calming noises, he managed to stop the flow of the child's tears. "Would ice cream make it better?" he offered, rubbing the boy's back.

To his surprise, the child shook his head. "Don't wan' ice cream."

"What do you want?"

"You've got to kiss it better."

The swell of affection in England's heart made him completely forget the pain of his hangover. His little colony was just as adorable as he remembered. He brushed back the boy's hair and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. "There. Does that feel better, love?"

Freddie nodded and smiled back. His cheerful smile showed none of his earlier distress, although there was still a faint redness around his eyes.

The U.S. made a gagging noise. "Ugh, I must have drunk too much last night too because I feel like puking."

"I wouldn't recommend it," Al teased, "that's not going to help your chances at all."

"Shut up."

America lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Hey, do you guys smell something burning?" His eyes widened in realization. "Oh shit!" he said as he raced upstairs to rescue the eggs and bacon.

Despite the slight blackness, England ate them anyway. They tasted fine to him.

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The rest of the afternoon was spent at the beach. England collected seashells with Freddie, though he paused occasionally to admire America and Al while they played a game of shirtless tetherball. Al hit the volleyball hard, sending it looping around the pole before America returned the volley with an equally strong hit. But the plays didn't interest England as much as the young men's physique. Al had taken off his shirt to reveal that he was slightly more tanned and muscular. But America had broader shoulders and short swim trunks that showed off his butt.

"Do you think this shell is better?" Freddie asked.

"They both look very nice," England replied without shifting his gaze.

"Ooh, this one still has a crab in it!"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm gonna add them to the pile!" Freddie said, finally drawing England's gaze away from the older Americas as the boy raced toward the area where the group had left their towels, bags, and chairs. A short distance away, the U.S. had set up his own chair and was busy reading a book.

The rest of the Americas were starting to make sense, but the angry teenager was still a mystery. England crossed the sand toward the lone chair, earning himself a glare as the teenager noticed him approach. He ignored it. "What are you reading?" he asked pleasantly.

"A book," the U.S. said tersely.

"But not a comic book."

The U.S. rolled his eyes. "Do I look like Mr. Hero?"

"Well, yes," England replied, earning a snort of amusement from the other nation.

"Okay, I walked into that one."

England bent down to get a better look at the book and was surprised to see that it was an English history book. Other than watching every WWII movie ever made, he had never known America to take much interest in history, either his own or anyone else's. The U.S. hastily hid the cover and glared at England again.

"Did you want something?" he demanded.

England shrugged and smiled slightly. "Not really. I just wanted to thank you for the lovely cup of tea this morning." He turned around when he heard Freddie call for him, but not before he noticed the light blush that dusted the teenager's cheeks.

How interesting...

Chapter Text

When England suggested visiting Colonial Williamsburg the next morning, the older Americas looked at him like he was crazy. But there was a method to England's madness. He had spent most of the previous night thinking about his one-sided love affair with America, and he had reached two riveting conclusions.

First, his love wasn't one-sided. If each of the Americas represented part of the original America's personality, then it seemed that America returned his love. The very idea filled England's heart with warm, giddy happiness. But that joy was tempered with his second realization: part of America kept pushing him away. And England was beginning to suspect the reason for the divide was the War They Did Not Discuss. If he wanted to know the truth, he would have to confront some uncomfortable history.

Ever the hero, America tried to dissuade him from visiting the Revolutionary City. "Don't you want to go to Busch Gardens again?" he asked with a worried smile. "Or a bar. We could just go straight to a bar."

"That sounds good to me," Al agreed.

England arched an eyebrow. "What's wrong with colonial Williamsburg? I'm very fond of historical, educational places," he said, trying to quell their dubious looks. "And it seems like a lovely city."

"You do know it's set during 1776?" the United States asked.

"I am aware," England calmly replied.

"Well, I call dibs on carrying him up to his room if he gets drunk again," Al whispered to America. At least, it was likely supposed to be a whisper. America had never been good at maintaining an 'indoor voice.'

"Just hold your horses, cowboy," America said, wagging a finger in Al's face. "Helping drunk Brits get home safely is a job for a hero."

The U.S. rolled his eyes as he flipped to the next page of the newspaper, pretending he wasn't interested in their discussion at all. "Are you two really going to fight over this?"

"Hey, you were the one who insisted on rock-paper-scissors last time," America reminded him. "You're just upset you lost."

"No, I didn't!" The teenager shouted, blushing beet red. "And no I'm not!"

"Did he really?" England asked, equal parts amused and intrigued.

"Oh, yeah." Al chuckled. "I mean, who plays scissors on the first round?"

In the end, the three refused to believe England when he said he wasn't going to get drunk, but they all agreed to go with him anyway (for reasons, England suspected, that were not entirely altruistic). Fortunately, Freddie at least seemed enthusiastic about the plan.

"Can we get costumes?" Freddie asked, his eyes sparkling. The boy was wearing modern clothing America had purchased from some big box store and England didn't think it suited the child at all. The mere thought of Freddie dressed up in a white child's frock made England's heart melt into goo. How could be possibly say no?

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Just as England remembered, the 18th century costumes for boys were adorable. England would have loved to spend all day watching Freddie try on breeches, loose cotton shirts and three-pointed hats at the costume rental store in Williamsburg. He wished he had brought his camera along on his trip, even though he would need to hide the pictures in case anyone wondered how he had managed to take a digital photo of colonial America. But the boy was just too cute in his little breeches!

The only downside of browsing for costumes came when the young woman behind the counter at the rental store heard England's accent and decided to help him find the perfect historical outfit. "Ooh!" she said, "I've got just the costume for you." She ducked into the backroom and returned, proudly holding a very familiar red coat.

England's heart clenched at the painful memories. "I think I'd prefer a gentleman's outfit," he managed to reply with a stiff upper lip.

America gave him a concerned look and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "Green's more your color anyway," he added. "Matches your pretty peepers."

"Peepers?"

"You know, your eyes."

"Oh, I see." England blinked, pleasantly surprised by the kind words. The flirting was certainly far more pleasant than their usual string of insults.

Moments later Al sauntered out of the changing room wearing an old-fashioned laborer's outfit with a cotton shirt under suspenders. He hooked his thumbs behind the leather suspenders and winked at the young woman behind the counter. "Do ya think the shirt is too tight?"

She gasped. "No! It's perfect!"

England frowned, not liking the way she was looking at Al. He stepped between the two to block Al from her view and then took the opportunity to examine the costume himself. Just for historical accuracy, of course. Everything about Al's costume was a little too tight, from the way the trousers hugged the younger nation's legs and hips to the shirt that showed off every abdominal muscle. Even the crotch was tight, though England quickly averted his gaze. The young man certainly did look very attractive, but the accuracy left something to be desired.

"I didn't think braces were invented until the 1800s," England said as he fingered the suspenders, unable to resist his desire to touch.

"But I'm not wearing braces," Al replied, widening his smile to show off his pearly whites. "My teeth are naturally perfect. Like everything else about me."

"Oh, I can think of a few things you're missing," England suggested. "Like modesty."

Al leaned in, brushing his lips past England's ear. "I ain't got nothing to be modest about. Maybe when we're done touring the town, I can show ya what I mean."

"Your grammar also leaves something to be desired," England replied smoothly as he pulled away. He enjoyed the delicious teasing, but he and America already had a tricky enough relationship as it was. He wasn't going to risk damaging it further while America was still under the effects of alien technology. Instead England (somewhat reluctantly) searched the racks of men's clothing until he found the perfect outfit, a lovely green suit. He returned from the changing room to find that America had picked blue, though the younger nation rather ruined the effect by wearing his bomber jacket instead of the suit jacket, protesting that his jacket was also 'historical' and therefore matched the suit.

The U.S. stuck to his dark t-shirt and jeans. "We've spent centuries developing comfier clothes," he complained. "I'm not going back to any of that stiff, formal shit."

Though England loved old-fashioned clothing, he had to admit that the teenager had a point as the sun continued to rise overhead, making the stiff fabric feel hot and heavy. It was a bit of relief to step into the dimly lit gaol for a tour of the colony's prison.

The tour guide (also dressed in clothing from the colonial era) pretended to be the warden as he told them the history of the goal's most infamous inhabitants: a dozen pirates who served Blackbeard. They had been captured the day their captain was killed off the coast of North Carolina. After a few nights in jail, they were tried and hanged in Williamsburg.

"Wow!" Freddie said excitedly. He peered into the grim, dark cells, eyeing the leg irons and the small food slots in the doors. "Engwand, did you meet Bwackbeard?"

England shook his head. "No, he was only on the eastern seaboard for two years, and I was busy in Europe at the time."

"There's a surprise," the United States muttered under his breath, too quiet for the others to hear. England frowned, wondering if he had imagined the undercurrent of pain that the teenager hid beneath his heavy coat of sarcasm.

Over the course of the day, the Americas dragged England to old-fashioned houses and shops, playing along with the tour guides as they churned butter and made bricks. Their focus on daily living largely avoided discussion of the American Revolutionary War. England wondered if the omission was intentional. It had to be. What else could possibly explain why America would willingly go with him to a decorative arts museum? Admittedly, the Americas spent more time looking at the furniture than the textiles, but England thoroughly enjoyed the breath-taking quality of the old quilts.

Walking through Colonial Williamsburg was like seeing history through rose-tinted glasses. England remembered colonial Williamsburg, which had been the capitol of the British colony of Virginia, and it was much, much dirtier than this gussied-up tourist town. Still, the guides told interesting stories and England approved of anything that encouraged more people to study history, even if it was a point in time that brought him painful memories.

Their final stop was the Governor's Palace, a re-creation of the elegant mansion that had served as home to nine Virginia governors before the capitol moved to Richmond. England paused a moment to admire the stone lion and stone unicorn guarding the gates, impressed by the handiwork despite the unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the reminder of former British authority. Despite the uneasy feeling, he followed the Americas and all of the other tourists into the building. The tour started in the front hall as the tour guides (dressed as maids) pretended that they were preparing the building for a ball in January 1775 to celebrate the birth of the royal governor's daughter. The last royal governor, England remembered as a migraine began to build behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples and avoided looking at the swords and rifles lining the walls as the pain continued to grow.

The tour led through the ballroom and the dining room, but England had a hard time admiring the opulence. Noticing that his headache was similar to the ones he suffered in early July, he began to wonder if visiting colonial Williamsburg was such a good idea after all. He hid at the back of the tour group and hoped that none of the Americas would notice.

When the guides began explaining how the building had served as a hospital for American soldiers during the Revolutionary War, England slipped out to the mansion's gardens for a breath of fresh air. He sat on a bench and lowered his head between his knees. Even in the shade of the old elm trees, it was too bright and too hot. It wasn't until he saw tennis shoes standing right in front of him that he even realized someone had approached. For a second he thought it might be a tour guide. He briefly wondered how to explain that the usual first aid wouldn't help his pain. He looked up and was surprised to find the United States staring at him instead.

"You look like you need some AC," the U.S. said bluntly. He apparently took England's lack of response as a 'yes' because he pulled the English nation to his feet and led him to the nearby gift shop. The air conditioning felt fantastic, and England gratefully sank into one of the chairs near the restrooms.

The United States disappeared, returning a minute later with an ice-cold bottle of water, which he pressed into England's hands. England felt better with each sip, even though he wondered when the teasing was going to start. Sure, the U.S. was acting nice now, but England didn't see how the teenager would be able to resist mocking him mercilessly for nearly fainting in the gardens. With his free hand, England unbuttoned the heavy jacket, feeling like he could finally breathe again when he was free of the stiff fabric.

The teenager looked out the window and frowned, glaring at the city outside. "I hate this place. It's all a lie."

England took another ice-cold sip and shrugged. At the moment, he was simply grateful for the historical inaccuracy of air conditioning and refrigeration. His love of the past didn't blind him to the joys of modern conveniences. "Well, it's certainly a bit too clean, but the re-enactors seem relatively accurate to me," he said.

"They've gotten better," the U.S. admitted. "It's just... well, they had segregated dorms when they re-built it in the 1930s. And in the 50s, African Americans could visit only one day per week. They barely even mentioned slavery until the 70s."

"You wish they had been more honest about history."

"No, I wish they had a better history to tell."

"Ah." England nodded in comprehension, realizing that the teen's anguish stemmed from a different war. Civil wars were painful for any nation, and it was especially hard for an idealistic nation like America to see the fault in his founders. England finally understood the teenager's veiled comments. "The lie is that they were thinking only of their own liberty, not liberty for all," he mused.

The U.S. stared at him in surprise, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. After a moment, he managed to close his mouth and give England a thoughtful look.

"What? You didn't expect an old Empire to understand?" England asked wryly. "You're hardly the first country to stagger toward democracy on the installment plan."

"No," the U.S. replied quickly, "I didn't expect you to admit that you're old." But England had seen the uncertainty and vulnerability beneath the teen's mask of sarcasm. It was rare for America to ever admit to self-doubt. And even rarer for him to turn to England for comfort. It reminded England of the first time America had written him a personal letter as a nation. Unfortunately, England's response had left something to be desired. It wasn't really a surprise the young country had never written again.

England sighed. "While we're on the subject of old hurts, I regret that I never responded to your letter."

"What letter?" the teenager asked, before comprehension dawned. "Oh, the one in '61." His gaze darkened. "Well, you did reply, sort of."

"A response from the English government stiffly informing you that we wouldn't take sides in your domestic affairs was hardly a response to what you had written."

"It was better than nothing. At least I stopped worrying about you helping the Confederacy." The American tilted his head to the side, giving England a searching look. "What do you wish you had said?"

"I should have told you that pain from the war, no matter how terrible, meant that the land still belonged to you. That your people would suffer, but a nation endures. And..." England paused for a moment, wondering if it was really a good idea to divulge a secret known to only a few other nations. But the teenager was listening to him intently, and he desperately wanted to reach him. "...and if the confederacy were destined to be a nation, it would have had a personification." He wondered if the teenager would understand the full implications.

Lost in their intense conversation, they both jerked as the teen's phone began to buzz. The U.S. pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "They've finally noticed that you're missing," he explained as he scrolled through the message. "And Al wants to know if you're at a bar."

"That's ridiculous," England sputtered. He frowned as he watched the United States type something in reply. "What are you telling them? You're not telling them the truth, are you?"

"Nah." The U.S. grinned. "I'm just saying that you found some fairies in the garden and you're chatting with them."

England crossed his arms. "That's equally absurd. I haven't seen a fairy in days."

The teenager's phone buzzed again. "Yeah, well, they said to meet up with them again when you're done talking to your invisible friends."

"Just because they're invisible to you doesn't mean—"

"Oh shit." The teenager blanched.

England leaned forward, instantly on alert. "What is it? What happened?"

"Nothing," the U.S. said, suddenly tight-lipped.

"Is everyone safe?"

"Yeah, it's just... America bought tickets for the Ghosts of Williamsburg tour."

"Well, you don't have to go if you're scared."

"I'm not scared!"

"No, of course not," England replied, smiling slightly to himself. No matter how different the various Americas acted, it was still reassuring to know that some things never changed.

Chapter Text

In the dim light of dusk, Williamsburg seemed enchantingly surreal.

Lanterns glowed in the windows and people moved quickly on the cobble streets, their modern clothing less jarring in the darkness. As night fell the buildings merged together into a long line of silhouettes, distinguished only by the happy laughter and bright lights from within the pubs and restaurants. They certainly seemed to be doing a brisk business.

England shivered as a cool breeze blew across the cobble streets. At his insistence they had returned their costume rentals before the store closed, but now he regretted handing back his heavy suit. They had fifteen minutes to wait before the ghost tour started (since England had also insisted on arriving early for the tour) and he wasn't looking forward to lingering outside in the cool evening air.

A moment later a warm and cozy jacket came to rest on his shoulders. England turned his head to the side and watched a now-jacketless America lower his arms and smile. "Better?" the younger nation asked eagerly.

"I wasn't that cold," England protested, even as he blushed and pulled the jacket more securely around his shoulders. He could feel America's warmth lingering in the jacket and found himself enveloped in an earthy scent that reminded him of summer days and sun-ripened wheat. It wasn't the first time America had lent out his bomber jacket, but the occasions were rare enough that England collected them like precious jewels.

He even knew—thanks to a video posted online by Scotland—that America sometimes covered him in the jacket when he was drunk and half-naked in his sexy waiter outfit, though he had no personal recollection of those incidents for obvious reasons. Scotland had probably intended to embarrass him with the video, but his effort backfired. England had been too pleased by the sight of himself wrapped in America's jacket to feel truly annoyed. He stored the video on his computer and watched it often. It was such an intimate gesture and one that, as far as England knew, America had never shared with another nation. As much as he and America argued, that told England that there was something truly special about their relationship.

"...want one, England?"

"Sorry?" The British nation blinked, pulled out of his fond reminiscence by the sound of America's voice.

He listened as America repeated his explanation and his question. They were going on a candlelit tour and America wanted to know if England wanted to carry a candle during the tour. England nodded and waited for America to fetch three sets of candlesticks from the guides, one each for the two older Americas and England. No one bothered to ask the United States if he wanted one. The poor teenager continued to tremble in fear, making a candle absolutely useless in his hands. England hid a smile. He would never admit it, but America was rather adorable when scared. Hence his long-running (and highly successful) efforts to frighten the lad on Halloween.

Feeling a moment of pity, England leaned closer to the teen. "We really could just return to your home," he suggested kindly, avoiding the dreaded g-word. "I wouldn't mind making an early night of it."

"We can't leave!" Freddie protested. "I wanna go on the tour."

"Not everything is about you," England said, slightly annoyed by the child's whining. "And I'm sure Al or America would be happy to stay with you."

The U.S. glanced up at England, his gaze vulnerable and confused. "You'd go back if I wanted to?"

"Yes," England agreed, not offering a further explanation because he was unsure of it himself. But he felt that if any of the Americas needed his help, he would gladly give it, and the frightened teenager seemed to need the most help at the moment. Despite the teen's annoying behavior, England could tell that the younger nation was mostly just confused and unable to communicate his own feelings. For reasons he didn't want to discuss in public, England sympathized.

The U.S. continued to stare at England in shock. It didn't look like he had ever expected England to choose him over Freddie. But after a moment's thought, the teen refused to take England up on his offer. "I'm not scared," he said through chattering teeth.

"If you say so," England sighed. "Honestly, I really don't understand how someone can continue to deny the obvious for so long."

Al snorted. "You can't understand? Come on, England. You're sort of the Queen of Denial."

"What are you talking about?" England demanded. "And I'm not a queen."

"Oh, let's see. We've got your bad cooking, your 'invisible' friends, your hidden porn stash―," Al listed, ticking each item off on his fingers.

"―his low alcohol tolerance―," America added helpfully.

"―his secret love of fast food―," the U.S. mentioned between shivers.

"―and let's not forget his complete love affair with America," Al finished.

"My what?" England sputtered indignantly. "I'm not... I don't..."

"You don't wuv us?" Freddie asked with a sniffle.

"Of course, I..." England glanced around at the grinning Americas. "I mean, that's not necessarily the same thing. There are different sorts of love."

"Hey, it's okay. We're going to help you!" America promised, tossing his arm around England's shoulders in a way that made the jacket feel even warmer. It was definitely the heat that was making England's face flush. "It's what heroes do."

Al winked. "And cowboys like to ride off into the sunset together."

"I'm sensing some self-interest here," England muttered, trying to steer the conversation so that it was focused on America instead of his slight crush on the other nation.

"Ah, don't worry, darling," Al drawled as he snaked an arm around England's waist. "It'll be good for you too," he whispered into England's ear.

England's face flared red but he was spared further indignities when the guide arrived and invited them to gather 'round for the start of the ghost tour. Al and America jumped at the word 'ghost,' proving they weren't as immune to fear as they pretended. They let go of England and held their flickering candles aloft, clearly hoping the flames would be enough to protect them from any colonial-era poltergeists.

"I'm scared, Engwand!" Freddie cried, although he sounded more cheerful than frightened. "Hold my hand?" he asked, reaching for England with a pleading expression.

Despite seeing through the child's blatant ruse, England held the boy's hand on the tour, promising him that he would be safe as long as he stayed by England's side. Al and America flanked them on either end, creating a warm island of flickering candlelight. The United States sulked behind them, although the teen took care not to fall too far behind.

As they passed each of the city's landmarks, England listened with half an ear to the various ghost stories. Some of the stories he knew, some were new, and some sounded like they had been fabricated out of whole cloth. But England didn't expect Americans to respect the supernatural, so he kept his grumbling to himself, and simply enjoyed the spooky atmosphere as the tour wound its way through the city.

Mostly, he enjoyed watching Al and America jump in fright at the end of each ghost story and then laugh it off a moment later. The U.S. stayed silent but moved closer and closer as the tour progressed, soon brushing against England's shoulder and then blindly reaching for England's hand. When the guide finished with the story of pirate ghosts who haunted the gaol, the United States of America—a global superpower with the world's second-largest army, third-largest population, and fourth-largest land area—clutched England's arm for dear life and whimpered. He buried his head against England's shoulder and refused to let go even after the tour ended and they walked to the car.

It wasn't until they reached the house that the U.S. seemed to realize what he was doing. He let go of England's arm and gave the other nation a shocked look before he glared, blushed, and ran up to his room. England chuckled as he heard the sound of a door slam upstairs. They put away coats and shoes and England decided it was Freddie's bedtime.

"Can I have a bedtime story?" Freddie asked sweetly. "I'm scared."

"You're not the least bit scared, you little minx," England replied, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed by the boy's blatant efforts to monopolize his affections.

"I am scared! But I'm not scared because I know you'll protect me," the boy said, his smile so trusting and innocent that England's heart melted at the sight.

"And I'll protect England!" America added.

"What, from ghosts?" England asked, enjoying the way America jumped into the air and then spun around, trying to see if any ghosts were closing in. England laughed. "You two might as well come up and listen to the bedtime story with Freddie. I know you're all going to end up sharing a bed with me anyway."

"Damn right," Al said with a wink. "And I want a bedtime story from your secret stash."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

America and Al somehow fit two queen beds into one of the guest bedrooms, giving them a bed long enough to hold everyone. England curled up in the center and read one of his favorite stories from the Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful fountain. And once a year, every year, a person could bathe in the fountain and enjoy fair fortune forevermore," he began, describing the efforts of three witches who sought to find the fountain and bathe in its waters.

The first was sick and she desired a cure for an incurable disease. The second wanted to reclaim her riches after a terrible robbery. And the third sought love after her beloved deserted her. They ran into a knight and began their quest. They faced three difficult tests, but they overcame each one with the help of their new friends. By the time they finally reached the fountain, the witches no longer needed its help. The poor witch had brewed a potion to cure the sick witch and realized she could rely on her talents to restore her wealth. The third witch had left behind her memories of her former love. So they allowed the knight to bathe in the fountain, and, feeling lucky, he promptly asked for the third witch's hand in marriage.

England smiled as he finished the story. "The four lived long, happy lives, never realizing that the fountain's waters carried no enchantment at all."

He tucked Freddie under the sheets and fell asleep with the boy cradled in his arms. England wasn't surprised to be awakened sometime during the night as a shivering body climbed into bed next to him. Nor was he surprised when he woke up in the morning with the U.S. curled up against his side, clutching England for security like a teddy bear. What was surprising was how remarkably comfortable it felt.

Chapter Text

England shifted his head to the side and smiled fondly as he watched the United States sleep curled up next to him. The real America had always looked younger without his glasses and the U.S. looked younger still. Just a young nation desperately trying to prove himself in the world, unable to admit that he wanted England's attention even as he desperately craved it. At least when he was asleep he looked peaceful and content.

America sprawled out on the other bed, snoring softly with rumpled sheets piled around his arms and legs. Given his messy sleep habits, he had managed to toss and twine blankets across the entire queen bed.

Al and Freddie were nowhere to be seen. England was surprised that any part of America could be such early risers, but, then again, he knew America always woke up very early for Christmas. England smiled to himself. Sometimes America was just like a child. And the way his eyes sparkled when he gave or received presents was simply adorable. As England reminisced about the 'real' America, he realized with a start that he had spent very little time on his ostensible goal of helping his ally return to his normal self. It just seemed so much easier to enjoy his holiday frolicking with the four Americas that liked him (even if one of them had a difficult time showing his affection).

And that was the issue, wasn't it? England wasn't sure he actually wanted the original America back. He liked flirting, playing, and laughing with these Americas. He even enjoyed the teenager's snarky humor. Spending time with them was completely different from being with America, and the reason for the discrepancy mystified him. How could the whole possibly be less than the sum of his parts?

A soft yawn from the U.S. drew England's attention back to the teenager. The teen had started to stir, blinking sleepy blue eyes at England. As he slowly woke up, he retracted his arm from around England's waist and gave England an embarrassed look. "Uh, I think I got lost on the way to my bed," the teenager mumbled.

"Your bedroom must be in a foreign country then," England replied with a chuckle, referring to America's terrible knowledge of world geography. As an afterthought, he reached out to brush down a few stray hairs that had decided to mimic Nantucket.

The U.S. stared back with wide eyes. A moment later he settled down against his pillow and gave England a thoughtful glance. "How do you feel?" he asked cautiously. If he was concerned about the aftereffects of visiting Colonial Williamsburg, he had nothing to worry about. England's headache had disappeared before the ghost tour.

"I'm fine." England grinned. "I wasn't the one who spent half the night shivering, you know," he pointed out.

The teenager pouted. "Well, you've got that crease between your eyebrows you get when you're worried about something."

"Do I?" England brushed his hand against his own forehead and frowned, making the crease deeper. He internally debated discussing his worries with the United States and decided it was worth a try. If any of them were able to provide insight into America's mental process, he felt it would be this one. "I'm wondering what will happen when you're yourself again," England admitted softly.

"What do you want to happen?" the teen asked.

England was annoyed at first that the teenager had replied with a question. He opened his mouth to complain and then shut it again, realizing that it wasn't a bad question. What did he want? America, the voice in his heart said, it just needed to convince his head.

"We could always return to the way it was before," the U.S. suggested when England took too long to answer.

"No," England immediately replied. "I didn't like the way we were."

"Neither did I," the U.S. admitted.

They stared at each other across the pillows, the bedroom silent other than America's soft snores. England felt his heart stir with hope as he stared into those enchanting blue depths. They had tried so many different relationships over the years; perhaps it was time to try something new. England opened his mouth to whisper the truth between the sheets. "I want this," he finally replied. "I want lazy mornings and lively rides and you holding my hand as you drag me to every tourist trap in the States."

"Me too." The U.S. blushed. "But when you say 'lively ride' do you mean...?"

England grinned. "Al told me that it's better to save a horse and ride―"

"―la la la, I can't hear you!" the U.S. cried as he jumped out of the bed, waking up America in the process. The teenager beat a hasty retreat that would have made France and Italy proud. England chuckled to himself.

"What got into him?" America asked sleepily. He slowly extricated himself from the maze of blankets, giving England a wonderful view of toned arms, taut buttocks, tight boxers, and tanned legs. As much as England denied it, there were certain advantages to being the world's erotic ambassador.

"Nothing much." England smiled. "I just forgot about your little Puritan streak."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

England enjoyed the rest of the lazy morning by sipping tea on the patio and watching Freddie race around in the backyard. He spent the time considering his next step in resolving America's current predicament. He now knew how America had split himself into four different entities, though the why remained a mystery. Given what England knew of America, the reason was probably boredom or curiosity or simple foolishness. America often acted first and thought of the consequences later.

"Look what I found!" Freddie called, laughing as he raced up the stairs to the patio with a rose in one hand and a brilliant smile on his face.

"Thank you, lad," England said as he accepted the rose from the child, taking care to hold the stem between the thorns. He smiled and sniffed the rose's lovely fragrance, but his enjoyment was ruined a moment later when he noticed the blood on Freddie's thumb. England frowned as he gently pulled the boy closer and examined the cut.

"I made an ouchie when I pulled it," Freddie explained.

"Then we'd better get you a plaster," England replied as he led the boy to the bathroom for a bit of first aid. He lifted Freddie onto the counter, carefully cleaned the cut, and covered it with one of America's band-aids. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

"A wittle bit."

England knelt down and kissed the top of the band-aid. "How about now?"

Freddie smiled. "All better!"

"Good, you should be more careful!" England chastised. He still remembered the day America had discovered poison ivy. That had been an awful day. Freddie just laughed and jumped down from the counter.

They both glanced toward the bathroom door as they heard a stream of loud curses coming from the computer room. England quickly slapped his hands over Freddie's ears to protect the child's innocence. The boy, however, had other plans. He wiggled out of England's grasp and raced out the door. England followed closely behind and arrived to find the United States doing... something... to the separator machine.

Al and America were watching with interest. It seemed that Al wanted to offer tips on cursing while America was more interested in the technology (even though his knowledge of technology was limited to the observation that "it seems to be powered by some sort of electricity").

"You call that cussin'?" Al asked with a grin. "I could teach you a word or two that would really show that you mean business."

That brash boast drew a snort from England, who suddenly found himself the center of attention. "The timid taunts you pass off as curses in this country wouldn't even embarrass the Queen," he observed. "Though you shouldn't swear in front of Freddie," he quickly added. "Yes, that means you, Al."

"Ah, fiddlesticks," Al teased back, his lips quirking upwards in an easy grin.

"I don't understand why that didn't work. Reversing the polarity always works!" the U.S. complained, giving the machine a half-hearted kick.

"Maybe Engwand can fix it," Freddie suggested.

The U.S. looked skeptical. "Dude, England sucks at technology."

"Excuse me? I seem to recall that I was using twitter before you were," England noted irritably. "Or have you already forgotten your first follower?"

"Hell no! You looked really cute in that Robin outfit," America said cheerfully.

"Shut up," the U.S. complained. "I'm trying to fix this machine and it would be easier if you would all just shut up."

The Americas decided they had better things to do, but England stayed behind to watch. He waited patiently as the teenager fiddled with knobs and wires. He imagined that the teen was trying to install a reverse button, though he didn't pretend to understand alien technology. England simply sat and stared. He had learned to wait patiently back in the days when his next meal depended on his ability to stay silent. Waiting for the U.S. to give up and say something was much easier in comparison.

The teen gave in after less than half of hour of England's silent watching. "What do you want, England?" he demanded as he turned around and crossed his arms.

"You could have installed a reverse button days ago," England noted. "Why now?"

"Because what we have to say to each other shouldn't be like this," the U.S. replied, blushing as he averted his gaze.

England resisted the urge to sweep the American into his arms and kiss him. He didn't know that America had such a romantic streak. It was a pleasant discovery. Instead he gave the U.S. his fondest, softest smile. "Then I'd better let you get back to work."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

True to his word, England left the teenager alone for the rest of the afternoon, though he found himself in too much of a frazzle to concentrate on anything. He started reading a book then stopped when he realized he had read the same page five times without even noticing. He began to make a pot of tea, forgot about it for half an hour, and returned to find his tea over-steeped and lukewarm. England stared at the wall and tried to plan out what he wanted to say once America was whole again.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. They had spent so long dancing around each other that England was terrified to take the next step now. What he had with America wasn't great, but at least they were friendly. He didn't want to ruin that.

The teenager's announcement that he had finished installing the reverse button came far too soon for England. He nevertheless joined the other Americas in the computer room so he could say goodbye. Well... not precisely goodbye. He didn't know what would happen to each of the Americas and their new memories, but he did know that the personality traits each represented weren't going to just disappear.

England opened his mouth to speak, but found his words stopped by a finger on his lips. The U.S. shook his head. "Whatever you want to say to me, save it for later," he insisted. Once he stepped into the machine, he gave England a genuinely happy look, the first one all weekend. "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Al was the next to say his goodbyes. "I put the stuff I bought at the grocery store in the master bedroom's nightstand," he whispered into England's ear before giving him a passionate kiss on the lips. It tasted beautiful and wonderful, but a little sad. Al winked and stepped into the machine while England was still recovering from the breathless kiss.

"Don't worry, England," America promised, giving England a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "The hero always gets the love interest."

"I'm not just a love interest!" England sputtered indignantly.

"Who ever said you were the love interest?" America asked with a chuckle as he stepped into the machine, making it a rather tight squeeze.

"Hurry up, Freddie," Al called.

"No!" The child shook his head and latched onto England's leg. "I don't wanna."

"Freddie..." England said gently as he brushed his fingers through the boy's hair. "What's wrong, lad?"

The boy looked up at him with pleading eyes. "I don't wanna leave you."

"Oh, Freddie." England felt a lump in his throat as he carefully removed the boy from his leg and knelt down until they were on the same eye-level. "You're not leaving. You're simply returning to the way you ought to be. You have a duty to your people, you know, and none of you would be able to represent your country on your own."

The child nodded reluctantly. "Promise you'll still love me?"

"Always," England promised.

The U.S. snorted from the machine. "Seriously, a Harry Potter reference? Rowling's already replaced Shakespeare as your favorite, hasn't she."

"Stop ruining the moment," England complained as he nudged Freddie toward the machine. The boy stepped in and waved goodbye. England was reminded of all the times he had seen America waving at him from the shore. Even though the boy tried to look cheerful, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Could you hit the big green button?" the U.S. asked.

England did so, albeit with a little trepidation. He took a few careful steps back and watched. The machine began to glow brighter and brighter with an inner light, brightening the room like a mini-nova until England had to look away. Whirling and whizzing noises filled his head, building up to a deafening crescendo.

CRACK.

In a flash, all the lights in the room winked out, leaving England and the machine in sudden darkness. He could still feel his hairs standing on edge from the static electricity in the air. "America? Did it work?" he called out.

"I don't think so," America replied.

"Nope," Al agreed.

"Well, shit," the U.S. complained. "I think I need Tony to add an extra power convertor."

After England fetched a candle, the Americas piled out of the machine and the U.S. placed an expletive-laden phone call to his alien friend. The older Americas seemed annoyed by the delay, though Freddie appeared pleased about the outcome.

"Another night with England!" he crowed gleefully. "Can I have a bedtime story?"

ߛ ߛ ߛ

"...true love's kiss broke the spell and they lived happily ever after," England finished the story and smiled down at the peacefully sleeping child. The lights in the house were still burnt out, so a single flickering candle lit the room. Telling bedtime stories by candlelight reminded England fondly of days long past. He loved modern lights for giving him a clear, strong light for his books, but there was something to be said for the soft, relaxing glow of a candle.

Taking care not to wake the child, England tiptoed out of the room. He left the candle behind because he knew Freddie was scared of the dark. England made his way through the hallway in darkness. Planning to change into his pajamas, he padded over to his own guest room and opened the door. A shriek came from within, startling England, though not as much as his entrance had frightened the United States. The teenager had dropped his flashlight and jumped straight into the air when England entered. He whirled around and gave England a guilty, scared look.

"What are you doing in here?" England asked.

"N-nothing," the teenager stuttered.

"Were you looking for me?"

"Uh..."

England sighed, grabbed the flashlight, and gently pulled the teen with him back to Freddie's room. "You're afraid of the dark too, aren't you?"

"No!" the U.S. protested. But despite his protest, he let England lead him to Freddie's bedroom and joined the other two nations on the bed. England blew out the candle and positioned himself between the two Americas so that both could hold onto him during the night if they needed to. England would never admit it, but he enjoyed how clingy and cuddly America became when he was frightened. "Don't you dare fall asleep before me," the U.S. demanded.

"Of course not," England replied. He stared at the ceiling and patiently waited for the teenager's breathing to even out into sleep. With a soft smile, England leaned over and gave the sleeping teen a peck on the forehead. "Good night, love," he murmured, before falling back onto his pillow and quickly losing himself to sleep as well.

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England woke up with a heavy arm around his waist and a heavy thought weighing down his chest. This was the day that America's alien friend would fix the machine, but he still wasn't sure that he was ready to deal with the real America. Still lost in thought, England quietly slipped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. Whenever he needed a bit of advice, he always turned to Mr. Earl Gray.

Soon, the sound of the kettle boiling was the only noise in the otherwise silent house, filling England with a vague sense of unease. He relaxed a moment later as he heard someone coming down the stairs. Judging from the steps, it sounded like Al. England looked up with a smile and nearly dropped his cup when he recognized the young man's face. He had the guarded expression of the United States, but with a few additional years.

"What the hell are you doing here, England?" the real America demanded.

Chapter Text

They stared at each other across the kitchen in tense silence as America fumed and England gathered his scattered thoughts. He didn't understand how America had returned to normal without any warning. Had he woken up next to the real America and not noticed the change in appearance in the dimly lit bedroom? But hadn't the machine failed? None of this made any sense. Even worse, it looked like England was going to have to explain the past weekend to an annoyed American with no memories of the progress they had made over the past few days. England didn't even know where to start.

"Is this about speeding up the Transatlantic Partnership?" America finally asked as he fully stepped into the kitchen. He opened the coffee cupboard and gaped in shock at the amount of tea. "Dude, switching my caffeine supply ain't gonna work."

"Have you really forgotten?" England asked a little desperately, his thick eyebrows knitting together with worry. "I've been here all weekend."

America turned to stare at him. "You've been hiding in my house all weekend?"

"No, of course not! You agreed to let me stay. We visited the amusement park and the beach and Williamsburg. Don't you remember?"

"That doesn't sound like us," America said, though at least his expression shifted from shocked anger to puzzlement. "Williamsburg? Are you sure you didn't just get drunk and wander into my house at some point?"

England sighed. "Yes, Williamsburg. No, I didn't visit the pub," he replied, conveniently leaving out the night he did visit the pub. If America had forgotten that particular detail, he wasn't going to remind him. "I don't understand why all of you assumed I couldn't handle it."

"Probably 'cause you have a habit of spitting up blood on the Fourth," America muttered under his breath. He stared at England and frowned. "And what do you mean all of us?"

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It would be easier to explain, England decided, if they were actually standing in front of the separator machine. At least then America would stop suggesting that he had made up the story as part of a drunken fantasy. Not that England had drunken fantasies about multiple Americas! Certainly not. (Perhaps he would start after this weekend, but that was besides the point.)

"Look, I came to your house because I heard a child answer the telephone," England began to explain as he led America to the computer room. "And once I arrived, you, well, the other America, eventually said that you had a machine to split yourself into multiple parts," he said, gesturing to... what turned out to be an empty spot in the room.

"Huh," America said, staring at the blank wall.

England spun around and scoured the room, desperately looking for the machine. "It was here just yesterday!" he insisted. His heart sank; America was definitely going to think he was suffering from an alcohol-induced delusion if he insisted that America had been split into several versions of himself by a non-existent machine.

"Dude, relax." America laughed as he gripped England's shoulder with a strong hand, preventing the other nation from racing around the room. "I know what you're talking about. Tony probably took it. Sometimes he upgrades stuff."

"Hmm, you did talk about your 'friend' installing a power converter after the reverse button failed," England replied thoughtfully. "But that still doesn't explain how you're back to normal."

America gave him a strange look. "I don't think we're thinking of the same machine. I mean, a reverse button would kinda ruin the whole point."

"How so?" England asked, feeling more confused by the moment. First America had returned to normal, now the machine that started it all had disappeared. England didn't know if the two events were related, but it seemed that the universe had conspired to give him a very difficult morning. And he hadn't even finished his tea.

"See, it's a machine that takes something you like and gets rid of the annoying stuff," America said with a grin and energetic hand gestures, his usual manner when discussing any type of technology. "I don't know why you'd wanna stick 'em back in."

"Really? I thought it was a separator of some sort," England said quietly.

"Yeah! It separates the good from the bad."

"...like taking mustard off bread."

America frowned. "Don't you like mustard?"

"...or pulling sugar out of tea."

"Hey! Sweet tea is awesome."

"And if you used it on a person, it would remove their annoying traits," England said, feeling a rush of comprehension flood his body. To the extent he had considered it at all, he had assumed that the different Americas represented different eras. How wrong he was. Nothing annoyed England more than America's childishness, his narcissism, and his constant need to be a hero. In other words, Freddie, Al, and the other America. "But a personality trait isn't like mustard or sugar," he added thoughtfully, "so it would have to create a split version of the person to embody that trait."

"I guess? I hadn't really thought about it," America said, but England could tell from the way his gaze dropped to the ground that he was lying.

England called him on it. "You clearly did at some point, since you used it on yourself."

America scoffed and brushed the accusation aside. "Pfft. I think I would remember being split into two people."

"...four, actually."

"Four?!" America gaped.

"I think each of your annoying traits had its own personification."

"Huh." America crossed his arms and gave England a disbelieving look. "Pics or it didn't happen."

England sighed. It seemed strange that America could be even more annoying when there was just one of him, but perhaps it was the concentration of annoying traits that made America so insufferable. Not to mention the huge shift from three Americas who openly adored him to just one who constantly insulted him. "I didn't take any―" he admitted.

"Ah-hah!" America cried in triumph.

"―but if you check the date on your mobile, I think you'll find that you lost a week."

America's smug grin disappeared as soon as he pulled out his cell phone and confirmed that England was correct. "How...?" His frown deepened. "This must mean..."

"I was telling the truth."

"I'm a time traveler!" America shouted at the same time, his voice drowning out England's statement.

"You're an idiot." England planted his face into his hands and sighed deeply.

"Huh, looks like you did visit the bar," America said as he started scrolling through his texts. "One of my phones is telling the other phone to go get the car." He pressed a few more buttons on his phone and started to grin. A few seconds later, the phone began to play the sound of a drunken England's ranting. England glanced up, was that a video?

"Stop playing that!" England demanded, half-lunging as he tried to grab the phone out of America's hands. He wasn't ready to explain his drunken kiss when America still didn't believe him about their weekend together.

America just laughed and danced away, holding the phone above his head and slightly out of England's reach. He grinned while England glared at him and the video continued to pay. England narrowed his eyes. That keep-away tactic wasn't going to work against him; not when he knew America's secret weakness. England lunged forward, sticking his hands out at the last moment to tickle the other nation's sides. America doubled over in helpless giggles and England snatched the phone triumphantly.

"Hehe-hey! Wa-ha-wait!" America called.

With a tight grip on his prize, England raced to the nearest bathroom and locked the door behind him, all before America could even recover. Safe, for the moment, England turned his attention to the phone. The video ended with him planting a sloppy wet kiss on the other America. He must have passed out at that point because America scooped him up bridal style and England knew he would have complained if he were conscious. Once the video ended, England was shocked to discover even more pictures. Quickly scrolling past the photos of America carrying him back to the car, he paused for a long time when he found a picture with Freddie. The photo showed himself conked out in the backseat of the SUV, a bomber jacket covering his torso and Freddie asleep at his side. The cuteness was almost too much to handle.

"England, I know you're in there!" America shouted, knocking loudly on the bathroom door as he tried to force it open. "Come on, give it back!" The shouts and knocking grew louder and more desperate, but the Englishman couldn't pull himself away from the photo album. There were several more photos of the weekend, and every single one featured him. Pictures of him in his colonial outfit, and then in modern clothes later in the evening (though the only photo taken during the ghost tour was blurred). The U.S. was sneakier than England had given the teen credit for. Apparently the teen had been taking pictures each time he seemed to be fiddling with his phone.

England expected the photos to end with the Williamsburg trip, so he wasn't prepared to scroll past the last photo and find a picture of himself at the G8 conference in Germany several years earlier. Even more surprising, it was a truly gorgeous image. England had strolled along the River Spree during their lunch break and he looked relaxed and confident, smiling at a spark of light that England remembered as a kind pixie. The next few photos followed the same pattern; they were all beautiful, candid shots.

"Dude, this is totally not cool!" America shouted, pounding on the door. "Don't make me break down my own damn door."

England ignored him. Instead his cheeks flushed as he reached a collection of photos from a drunken night he couldn't remember. He knew that he tended to strip down to a ridiculous waiter outfit when he was completely trashed, but the number of times America had covered him with his bomber jacket came as a surprise. England really wished he could remember those nights.

"Are you even listening to me?" America asked as the pounding stopped.

"I can hear you just fine," England replied, satisfied that he had seen all he needed. "And I'll let you have your mobile back if you admit that I was right about this weekend."

"Okay, fine! You were right!" America replied a little too quickly. The poor nation was clearly worried about England's reaction to the secret trove of photos.

"See, lad, that wasn't so hard." England opened the door and found the phone instantly snatched out of his hands. America glared at him and stalked away. Perhaps England had pushed him too far. Even from the other side of the house, England could hear America stomp upstairs to his bedroom. The typical teenager behavior made England shake his head fondly. Now he understood what the United States had been going through. Because if you pulled away America's childish innocence and sweetness, stripped him of his confident self-infatuation, and deprived him of his heroic goals, all that was left was a sulking, confused teenager who was a little too snarky for his own good.

England debated following America upstairs, but somehow it didn't seem like the right moment to confess his long-buried feelings. He decided to give America some time alone. Admittedly, England probably shouldn't have stolen something as personal as a phone, but America had been secretly photographing him for years, so he felt that they were even in terms of invasions of privacy.

It felt strange to sit in the silent house and finish his cup of morning tea. One America normally was noisy enough on his own, and England had grown used to four of them. So when he heard a noise from the computer room, his first thought was that it was just Freddie playing a video game. A moment later he remembered that Freddie was gone.

"Is that you, America?" England called, his body tensed as he approached what should have been an empty room.

"No, ―ing limey," a voice replied.

"Oh," England said in disdain, scowling at America's alien friend as he stepped into the room, "it's you."

The gray alien replied with a string of curse words, but otherwise ignored England. The separator machine was back in the room, looking for all appearances like it had never left. The alien focused on the machine, pushing a complicated string of glowing buttons as he continued to swear. England wasn't sure if the alien was swearing at him or if he was swearing at the machine. Probably both.

"He doesn't need the machine," England said. "America's back to normal now."

"No, ―ing limey." The alien rolled his eyes at England.

"Are you saying he's not back to normal? He seems his usual self."

The alien pressed more buttons. "No, ―ing limey."

"I'm starting to think those are the only three words you know."

"Hell no, ―ing limey."

The alien pushed one final button and then stalked over to England, jabbing at England's chest with a hand-like appendage that had far more than five fingers. "You ―ing broke him, you ―ing fix him, ―ing limey," the alien said, before briefly glowing and then disappearing into nothingness.

"How rude," England complained to empty air.

Deciding that he should let America know that the machine was back (and that his 'friend' Tony was still a rude asshole), England stalked upstairs and knocked on America's door. It seemed that America planned on sulking for the rest of the day, because England found that he was now the one stuck outside a locked door as the person inside ignored him.

England cleared his throat. "America, your alien friend came back with the machine," he announced. When that statement received no response, he added, "He's still a rude git, you know. He swears more than Romano, and I didn't even think that was possible." England waited for a response and then knocked again, growing increasingly annoyed by America's silence. "Honestly, America, just because you look like a teenager doesn't mean you need to sulk like one."

"Go away, England," America replied, his voice muffled through the door.

"We still need to talk about this weekend," England said, working up his courage. It wasn't fair to keep dancing away from a straight-out confession, but after hiding his feelings so long, he didn't know how to tell the truth anymore.

"I'm not apologizing for whatever annoying-me did," America grumbled, jumping to entirely the wrong conclusion.

England chuckled. "Your annoying traits were rather pleasant, actually." He paused and waited for America to reply, before adding, "Why don't you come out so I can fill you in on what happened? We can go out for lunch," he offered.

Drawn by the allure of food, America finally opened the door. But there was something subtly off about his expression―when had the real America ever looked so thoughtfully annoyed? England stared. America looked too much like the U.S. and not enough like his other personality traits.

The alien was right; America hadn't returned to normal.

Chapter Text

England wasn't surprised when America chose somewhere other than McDonald's for lunch. They pulled into a parking lot filled with pick-up trucks and America waved to the other regulars as they grabbed a small seat near the back. The decorations weren't much to look at, but the scents wafting from the kitchen smelled heavenly.

"Hey, Al! It's been a while, hun," the waitress greeted them cheerfully. "What can I get you and your friend?"

America smiled back and ordered for both of them. "And can we start with the hushpuppies?" he asked eagerly. He turned his smile to England once the waitress left with their order. "They've got the third best hushpuppies in the whole United States."

"Only the third best?" England asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know. You deserve the best, but New Orleans is a long road trip."

"I... I doubt I'd like the city anyway," England replied, surprised by America's good mood and flattery. "Too French."

"Well, let me know if you ever change your mind. The French Quarter is actually the best part," America teased. "That's where they have gay Mardi Gras."

England blinked. He decided that America couldn't possibly be implying what England thought he was implying. "Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning of the weekend," he said, preparing to give America a brief synopsis of their time together (leaving out, for the moment, details such as the frequency of kisses).

America waved away his explanation. "You don't need to. They left letters in my room, so I think I have the gist."

"They did?" England gasped, wondering if the letters were what Al and the other America meant when they said they would help him.

"Yep. Two letters and a crayon drawing. One of the letters said Al and the other just said America. I guess he was too lazy to come up with his own name," America said, trailing off when the waitress arrived with the hushpuppies. The fried cornmeal balls were tasty distractions; savory and warm, the chewy center contrasted nicely with the crunch of the outer layer. But England found it difficult to focus on food when America had just given him an intriguing morsel of information.

"So did they write anything... interesting?" he asked carefully between bites, half-curious and half-worried about what exactly the other Americas had said.

America leaned closer, and a grin slowly spread across his face. "Do you really want to know, England? 'Cause one of 'em had a pretty extensive list of tips, if you know what I mean," he added with a wink.

England gaped. He had assumed that America was in a good mood because of the food, but this was more than just food-based happiness. America was undeniably flirting with him. In fact, it reminded England of... "Al?" he asked.

"You can call me whatever you want," America said with another wink. The shameless flirting continued as their sandwiches arrived, and England found himself dealing with burning questions and flame-red cheeks. America was definitely not back to normal, although England enjoyed the cheesy one-liners a little more than he cared to admit. Especially when America started making dirty jokes about southern hospitality. By the time they had polished off their sandwiches, America was even willing to share a few salacious details about the letter from Al.

"...and he said to always let you lead the way on horse rides because there's a better view from the rear," America finished as he paid the check. He even held the door for England as they left the diner, leaving the poor Englishman shocked speechless at the surfeit of gentlemanly behavior. "Oh, and he said there was a present for you in the nightstand," America added as he skipped happily to the car.

England cleared his throat. "Ah, I think I know what that is."

"I'm ready for nap time," America said as he opened the driver's side door and stood next to it. He gave England a confused look as England headed for the passenger's side. "Wait... you're letting me drive?" he asked eagerly.

"Why wouldn't I? It's your car."

"Oh, boy! Don't worry, England. I'm really good at Mario Kart!" America said as he jumped in and revved the engine.

"What does that have to do with..." England began to reply as he buckled his own seatbelt. "Good lord, America! Slow down, this isn't a racing game!" he cried, bracing himself as the SUV lurched onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds.

"Zrrom, zrrom, zrroooom!" America yelled, his foot heavy on the gas.

"My god, watch out!" England shouted as they narrowly dodged a car merging onto the highway on their right. The ride back was a terrifying blur. Even though it took half the time, it felt like a terrifying eternity. "Hit the brake! Hit the brake!" England cried as they sped up America's long driveway at a breakneck speed.

"Where's the brake?!" America shouted back. A second later, the SUV skidded to a screeching stop as they plunged into the garage door. England jerked forward, his tight seatbelt squeezing all of the air out of his lungs. He landed back against his seat in recoil and tried to gasp for breath. The last thing he heard before everything went black was America saying cheerfully, "Oh, that one's the brake."

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As England slowly regained consciousness, he first noticed a warm piece of cloth firmly pressed against his cheek. It felt like it was moving. "Mhuh?" he asked groggily.

"Don't worry, I've got you," America replied, his voice coming from just above England's head. England felt strong arms tightening under his knees and around his back. He was being carried up the stairs like a bride, or a princess, or maybe a princess bride.

"Put me down," England demanded, trying to wriggle out of America's grasp as they reached the top of the stairs. "I can walk."

"Ah, it's just a few more steps. Come on, let me be your hero." England stopped wiggling and looked up at America in shock. Now he understood why America wasn't back to normal; he was in one body again, but his personalities hadn't merged! He should have realized once America started flirting with him at the diner. Oblivious to England's whirling thoughts, America took advantage of the sudden silence to kick open the door to the guest room and he laid him, surprisingly gently, on the bed. The bed dipped as America sat next to England, looking subdued and apologetic. "So, is there anything I can get you? Some painkillers? An ice pack?"

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss," England said, more out of habit than anything else. America nodded and left him to sort out his thoughts in silence.

England stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do next. He was a little tempted to sneak into America's room and read the letters from Al, Freddie, and the other America, but he resisted the urge. As England thought about the letters he frowned, pondering why the United States hadn't written anything to his alter ego. Did the U.S. not want them together after all? Or perhaps the U.S. had a slightly different plan. England sat upright and began to search through his room, remembering the way the teen had acted guilty when England caught him sneaking around in his bedroom. Maybe the U.S. had decided to write his letter to England.

After ransacking his luggage and the shelves, England finally spotted a wayward piece of paper sticking out of the corner of his book. He grabbed the letter, knocking the book to the floor in his haste. He unfolded the letter and read it eagerly. The handwriting was as messy as usual, but the careful wording reminded England that America had many fine writers, even if he didn't admire them properly.

My dearest England,

The others and I have not been honest with you.

My first confession: I stepped into the machine fully aware of what it could do. The reasons for my actions are difficult to admit, though I believe you deserve to know why. For a long time, I was satisfied that we were friends and scared to upset what had taken us so long to rebuild. But as much as I yearned for something more, I could see that my presence often annoyed you. And so I thought that I could separate out the parts of me that were driving us apart. Unfortunately, the result was not as clean as I hoped.

After you called, the others agreed on a plan. They wanted to test your reaction to each of us, in hopes of identifying the one you loved most. I thought it was a stupid plan and told them so. Truly, I was afraid because I knew the winner would not be me.

You surprised us. We realized that none of us was the one you really wanted. Despite all of his faults, I think you truly love America.

I have written you this letter in case America does not tell you the truth after he returns. I don't think he will. There is a great vulnerability in admitting your feelings and although he values bravery, I think he's too scared of losing you to say anything. As much as it hurts to admit it, I suppose I have the advantage in that regard. There's nothing to fear when you know you've already lost.

With all my heart,
Alfred

England's vision blurred slightly as he folded the letter and picked his book off the floor. He was still standing there, holding the book in one hand, when America returned with the tea. "Holy smokes, what happened in here?" America demanded, setting the tea cup on the nightstand as he gaped at the room's disheveled state.

"I found the fourth letter," England replied, a lump still in his throat.

America looked concerned. "Hey, he didn't say anything bad, did he? Because I can go back into that machine and kick his ass if you want."

"No." England shook his head and smiled at America. "No, actually, he told me something very important. And there's something important that I should tell you."

"Is it about that time―" America shut up quickly when England stepped close enough to press a finger against his lips.

"Alfred, let me finish or I might never work up the courage to tell you this again," he said softly, earning him a surprised stare and America's full attention. "The parts of you that annoy me are also some of your best traits. Yes, you can be childish and immature, but you're also innocent and sweet. And although I get sick of hearing hero-this and hero-that, I admire your earnest dedication to doing what you think is right. I'll admit that the whole world is a little tired of listening to you talk about how great you think you are, but your confidence is also very, well, it's quite attractive. I don't love you despite your flaws. I love you because of them."

America gaped. "You love me?"

"Every little bit of you," England replied, as he grabbed America's shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. He felt America's shocked inhale of breath and then America was wrapping arms around his waist and kissing him back. The kiss was hungry and sweet and everything he had ever wanted from America. In an instant, the world clicked into place.

When the kiss finally ended because they both needed oxygen, America stared back at him with sparkling eyes, his grin bright enough to light up the room. "I remember now! I remember!" he cried happily as he pulled England into a comfortable hug. "We had quite the weekend, huh?"

"It was lovely," England sighed happily as he rested his head against America's shoulder. It all seemed clear in retrospect. Sufficiently advanced technology was indistinguishable from magic, and everyone knew that a kiss could break any spell. Kissing each of the four Americas had started the process, but it took a single kiss to return everything to normal. Better than normal, actually.

"Hey, if your kisses can give me my memory back, do you think they can give me superpowers?" America asked eagerly. "Because that would be awesome."

It was hardly the most romantic proposition in the history of the world, but England felt too giddy to care. He smiled back. "Only one way to find out..."

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An hour later, when England realized that his tea had gone cold, he didn't even mind.

Chapter Text

Two months later...

America had mixed feelings about early mornings, but he knew that he definitely liked the way England looked just after rolling out of bed, his hair messy and clothes rumpled. The ocean between them meant that he couldn't see England's bedhead as often as he would like, so America treasured their mornings together, as they sat sipping coffee and tea. All he needed to make his morning complete was a soft smile from his sweetheart.

He laughed at a newspaper headline and held up the paper to show England. "Check it out! I should totally frame this one."

Uninvited Arthur Adds Adventure To Vacation

"I was invited," England complained as he tried to grab the paper out of America's hand. "And where did you get that? You don't even have a subscription."

"Heh," America chuckled, enjoying England's look of exasperation. "My assistant's been collecting them ever since she heard that my British boyfriend Arthur was staying for the holiday," he explained. "She really liked that photo of you passed out in the bunting, you know. Speaking of which, what do you think of this one?"

Arthur Disrupts July 4th Festivities, But Does Little Damage

"Oh god, don't remind me." England sighed and buried his face in his hands.

America carefully tucked away the paper where England couldn't ruin it. This one was definitely a keeper. "If I frame the headline I should add the picture too. I bet Kiku would help me make it look like part of the original article," he mused.

"You wouldn't dare." England's head snapped up and he gave America his best we-are-not-amused look.

"Oh, come on! I let you keep Freddie's drawing," America protested. He hadn't wanted to share, but after seeing the tears well in England's eyes, he didn't have the heart to say no. The adorable image of two stick figures holding hands―one with thick eyebrows, the other with a tall cowlick―had a place of honor in England's study. So naturally America wanted a souvenir for himself to remind him of their first Fourth together.

England had come to his birthday party a number of times, though he usually didn't stay for long. So some nations hadn't noticed that this time was different (and half of the world already assumed that they were dating). Others had spotted the change right away. Canada had taken one look at the two and pulled them both into a tight group hug.

"Didn't you have to go in to finish some work today?" England asked, interrupting America's fond reminiscence.

"Shit." America glanced at the clock and panicked. He finished his coffee in one hot gulp, grabbed his briefcase, and gave England a kiss on the cheek. "See you tonight!" he called as he rushed out the door.

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Eight painfully slow hours later, America pulled into his renovated garage and hopped out of the car as soon as he turned off the ignition. England's vacation only lasted another week and he didn't want to waste a minute.

"Hey, England! I'm..." America paused in the open doorway, shocked to find England waiting for him in the foyer wearing full pirate regalia. "...home?"

"Ahoy, me hearty." The pirate winked at him and swaggered forward.

America whistled, letting his gaze wander up from the bottom of England's leather boots to the feather at the top of his hat. His trousers were tight in all the right places and his elegant red coat hugged his slim frame beautifully. "Wow. What's up?"

The pirate smirked. "I've got me eye on some booty."

Before he could deliver a clever riposte, America was surprised to hear someone else running through the house. He glanced toward the kitchen and his jaw dropped as he saw England wearing a short black apron, coming straight towards him. That England tackled America in a running hug, and America could immediately smell the rum. He looked between the two Englands in shock.

"Careful, lad. He's loaded to the gunwalls," the pirate warned with a chuckle. He lifted the drunkard up and pushed him toward the couch. The drunk nation sprawled out and gave them both a loose smile. To America's surprise, the pirate leaned over the drunk and kissed him. "You taste like rum," he purred after plundering the drunk's mouth.

America stood frozen to the spot. He gulped. Watching the pirate straddle the drunk was strangely erotic. It was pretty obvious what England had done and America very much approved. "Best belated birthday present ever."

"Stop it!" a third voice called from behind America. He turned around and found himself momentarily blinded by the light of a golden halo. This England had fluffy white wings and a scandalously short toga. He stood scowling at them, arms akimbo.

"Did it hurt?" America asked.

"What?" The angel gave him a confused glance.

"When you fell from heaven."

"You idiot!" The angel blushed and looked mortified.

"Don't bother with sweet words," the pirate advised as he left the drunk behind. "In the sweet trade, what ye want, ye take," he finished, striding forward and pulling the angel against his chest with one arm. He pressed his lips against the other England, making the poor angel's cheeks burn bright red.

"Mmmh! Mmmmh!" the angel protested as he struggled in the pirate's grasp.

"Hey! He doesn't like that," America warned, closing the distance between them in a few steps. They tussled for a few seconds and America suddenly found that he was the only one holding up the angel as he collapsed in a swoon. "What did you do to him?"

"The same as I plan to do to ye," the pirate replied with a fierce smirk. True to his words, he caught America's lips in a harsh kiss with a faint aftertaste of rum. America would have pushed him off, but he still had an armful of unconscious angel and didn't want to drop him on the floor. And he wasn't really sure he wanted to end the very enjoyable kiss.

America was both relieved and disappointed when the pirate was pulled off of him a moment later and he found himself facing an angry Brit in a green military uniform instead. "Not on my watch," the soldier scolded the pirate.

The pirate smirked back. "Ah, ye be jealous."

"That's ridiculous! Now bugger off!" the solider commanded with a cold glare, placing a hand on his holstered pistol for emphasis. With a mocking bow, the pirate turned on his heels (high heels, America noted in amazement) and strode out of the room. The soldier watched him go with a cold gaze. "We need a more defensible position," he warned America.

"Okay," America agreed, hefting the unconscious angel over his shoulder. It was a good thing no one else was in the house because the toga had hiked up around his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. For someone so shy and easily embarrassed, it seemed strange that he didn't wear underpants. The drunken England stumbled over to them and draped himself on America's shoulder, making it difficult to follow the soldier up the stairs. Especially with the way America's gaze naturally dropped down to the skimpy apron hanging precariously around England's hips. Reminding himself of the angel on his shoulder, he gulped and focused on the stairs ahead of him.

Somehow America wasn't surprised to find a gentleman waiting for them in the bedroom, sipping tea and reading a book, his top hat and cane sitting next to him on a table. He stood up when they entered the room and helped America gently lower the angel onto the bed. The gentleman slipped a pillow under the angel's head while America tugged on the toga to make sure it was covering at least the top portion of England's thighs. The angel looked peaceful with his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

"Aren't you going to fetch the smelling salts?" the gentleman asked America.

America laughed. "Dude, do I look like the sort of person that has smelling salts?"

"Very well then, I shall try an alternative method." The gentleman raised his hand and slapped the angel. The unconscious nation's head rolled to the side, but he didn't stir. America grabbed the gentleman's wrist before he could slap him again.

"Whoa! If he didn't wake up when I was lugging him up the stairs, that ain't gonna help."

"Coffee?" the drunk suggested as he leaned on America for support.

"Maybe." America steadied the drunken England to prevent him from falling face first onto the bed. He looked down at the angel, who now had one cheek redder than the other, and noticed something missing. "Where did his halo go?"

"It was gold and shiny," the soldier said without turning away from his position guarding the door. "The sort of item a pirate would value."

America frowned and muttered, "Damn it." He had imagined what would happen if England had ever stepped into the separator machine, but he hadn't expected the Englands to fight so much amongst themselves. Still, it wasn't a hard problem to solve. "Well, if you guys want to go back to normal, I'm going to have to kiss all of you," he explained.

"What?! Why would I want to kiss you?" the soldier protested.

"Indeed, we haven't even courted properly," the gentleman added.

"I'll kiss you!" the drunk cried as he leaned in for a sloppy, wet kiss. The overpowering taste of rum filled America's mouth. He pulled the drunk closer and wasn't surprised when, moments later, the weight in his arms grew heavier. For the second time in as many minutes, America found himself holding an unconscious England in his arms.

"You always do that!" he complained as he carried the drunk to the other side of the bed. "We start getting to the good part and you're out like a light. It's super annoying!"

"Shall I slap him?" the gentleman offered.

"Nah." Despite his harsh words, America gently maneuvered the passed out Brit onto the bed and made sure that the tiny black apron was covering his vital regions. The Englands that were prone to fainting probably should have stuck to trousers. "So is there anyone else?" he asked.

"There's the child," the soldier replied. "He runs away from everyone."

"Little England is here?" America asked as a wide grin spread across his face. He had always wanted to see what England looked like as a kid. "We gotta find him!"

The gentleman harrumphed. "That boy has atrocious manners."

"And there's also the one with green hair and the torn, tight-fitting clothes," the soldier added. America perked up, easily recognizing that description. He still suspected that his feelings for England had made his country such a fertile ground for the British invasion. It had all started with the Beatles and grown more amazing over the next two decades. America still remembered how he had drooled over England's fashion choices during his punk faze (not that he was quite ready to admit it to the real England).

It seemed that the gentleman didn't share America's appreciation for skinny jeans or the music that went with it. "Did you hear what he was listening to?" the gentleman asked indignantly. "Honestly, in my day kids appreciated Elgar!"

"Music is hardly our biggest concern. As long as Captain Kirkland is prowling the house, I think they might both be in trouble," the solider warned.

America nodded. "All right, here's the plan," he said, swelling with pride at the opportunity to be England's hero. "Find the kid, recover the halo, rescue the punk. You'll be my backup, Britain!"

Chapter Text

America knew all of the little hidey corners in his own house, but it was exhausting to search through every cabinet and under every bed. As much as he loved McMansions, at the moment he regretted the size of his sprawling house.

He finished checking the linen closet and suddenly found Britain pushing him behind the door and pressing a finger to his lips. Expecting a kiss, America held his tongue. But Britain wasn't looking at his lips... he was staring at the hallway. Through a crack in the door, they both watched a child in a flowing green cloak slip into America's bedroom. When Britain nodded, America eagerly raced into the bedroom while Britain closed the door behind them.

"Hey, little guy, I know you're in here," America called. "It's safe to come out now. I'm going to protect you."

The soldier snorted as he stood guard near the door. "He won't believe you. No one ever wanted to protect me when I was his age."

"Don't listen to Mr. Downer here," America said as he scanned the room for possible hiding places: the bed, the closet, or behind drapes rustling gently in the wind. He walked toward the bed first, saying, "I want to help and I have cookies!"

"Yes, luring a small child with sweets. That's not suspicious."

America rolled his eyes. "Okay, now I'm positive I know who you are. You're definitely England's denial and his pessimism."

"No, I'm not!"

"Riiiight," America said with a grin, ignoring Britain's protests. "I've got you all pegged. The drunk is his low tolerance. The Victorian dude is his obsession with etiquette and manners. I think the angel is his prudishness. And the pirate is his desire to conquer and control." America paused thoughtfully near the bed. If he could figure out who the child was, that might make it easier to convince the kid to trust him.

"That's not much of an explanation," Britain complained. "Being different personality traits hardly explains why we would each represent different time periods."

"I think it's cuz we're nations," America said as he ducked his head under the bed and found only cobwebs. He had cleaned a bit before England's arrival, though not very thoroughly. "Tony says the machine would make a regular human go kinda crazy, but we have a way of seeing ourselves as different people that makes it easier to handle."

The soldier gave him a withering stare. "You voluntarily stepped into a machine that could have driven you insane? What on earth were you thinking?"

"Hey, it's not like I had anything to lose. I mean, I was already going crazy anyway trying to figure out how to get you to like me." America grinned. "Turns out I just had to be myself and myself and myself. Besides, why did you step into the machine?"

"I didn't step in, your alien friend pushed me." Nevertheless Britain's expression softened. "I can't believe you did something so stupid just to get my attention."

America chuckled, recognizing the statement as typical England doublespeak for I'm-madly-in-love-with-you-America-but-won't-admit-it. Returning to his search, he noticed the fluttering drapes out of the corner of his eye and frowned as he tried to remember if he had left the windows open. Heart racing with excitement, America raced over to the window and looked out, hoping to find the boy out on the roof ledge. He turned his head and found himself face to face with a bow and arrow.

"Stay away," the young England warned, holding his bow steady as he took two steps back, bringing him to the far edge of the roof's narrow ledge.

"Hey," America said soothingly, his palms lifted out to show that they were empty. "You should come in, it's not safe out there."

"Did you find him?" Britain called from the bedroom doorway. "Do you need help?"

"I've got it," America replied as he swung his leg over the window sill.

"No!" The child shook his head and did a miniature version of England's harshest glare. "Leave me alone. I won't let you hurt me again!"

America froze partway through the window, recognizing the part of England that feared and distrusted strangers. He wasn't surprised that a part of England still worried about being hurt again, but it stung to think that his lover didn't trust him enough to be honest about his fears. Wishing they could have a heart-to-heart somewhere other than the roof, America lifted his other leg through the window.

"I said stay back!" the child shouted as America dropped onto the roof. "I'll shoot!"

"It's okay," America replied confidently as he approached the child, holding out his hands and moving slowly, the same way he would treat a skittish foal. The shingles creaked ominously under his feet, but he kept going forward. "I trust you, England."

"Why?" the boy asked desperately, biting his lip as he stumbled backward and reached the edge of the roof. But he took one step too many. His eyes widened in panic and the bow clattered to the roof as he began to topple over the edge.

America closed the distance between them in one stride, grabbing England and pulling him against his chest. He overbalanced as he leaned backward and landed heavily on his ass. But America didn't mind the pain. He could feel England's heart pounding wildly, proof that the little nation was safe in his arms. America buried his nose into the boy's hair and took a deep breath. "Geez, don't scare me like that, England."

Climbing to his feet, America carried the child back to the window and handed him through the window to Britain before crawling through himself.

"We're okay," America said when he noticed the soldier's worried expression. The child took advantage of their moment of distraction to kick Britain and squirm out of his grasp. America tripped over his feet as he tried to climb through the window and chase after the boy at the same time. By the time he and Britain had made it to the doorway, however, the young nation was nowhere in sight.

"Bloody hell. I should have kept a tighter grip on him."

"It's not your fault. I didn't think he'd try to run after I saved him." America sighed. "Give him some time and I'll try again. At least it'll be easier finding the other England."

Britain tilted his head to the side. "How so?"

"We've just gotta follow the music."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

As America suspected, they heard punk England before they saw him. Not that he was hard to spot. The bright green hair stood out. The music-loving nation had found the old record player in America's basement, along with America's vinyl collection, and had cranked the sound up to eleven.

The punk grinned at them when he finally noticed their entrance over the sound of the blasting music. "Allo, America. Looks like you've finally decided to join the party."

"What party?" America said as he glanced around the empty basement room. "There's just you here."

"I am a party unto myself," the punk purred as he leaned provocatively against the record player. "And the Captain was here earlier, but he went looking for more rum."

"I only had one bottle," America complained, certain that his rum was long gone.

"No wonder he's been gone such a long time." The punk straightened up and ambled over to America in jeans so tight America didn't understand how he could walk. "Are you going to keep me company now?" he asked with a smirk and half-lidded eyes.

"No," the soldier interrupted. "We have a mission, remember?"

"Right." America gulped, trying to ignore how much he wanted to bend England over the record player and make his toes curl while Sex Pistols played in the background. "Uh, you haven't seen a halo laying around, have you?"

The punk arched an eyebrow. "A sinner like me?"

"Cut the crap, music-boy, and tell us what you know!" the soldier shouted, grabbing the punk and shaking him by the lapels of his leather jacket.

"I know what you need," the punk sneered. "A good kick in the pants so that stick up your ass can give you some pleasure instead of just making you a scowling bastard."

"How dare you!" the soldier yelled, his face completely red.

"Whoa, calm down," America said as he stepped between them and gently pushed them away from each other. "You guys don't need to fight. There's plenty of me to go around."

The soldier quickly backed away. "I'm not fighting over you!" he protested. "I'm here to find the halo so we can help Britannia Angel. Remember, America?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, yeah," America replied, embarrassed that the halo had slipped his mind so easily. He turned to the punk and gave him his most adorable puppy eyes. The kind guaranteed to work on any of the Englands. "Do you know where it is?"

It worked, but not as well as he had hoped. The punk stopped making bedroom eyes and sighed. "I felt something in the Captain's coat pocket earlier, and I don't think it was because he was happy to see me," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Thanks!" America barely had a chance to say goodbye as the soldier pulled him up the stairs. Britain really didn't like it when he spent time with the other Englands, not that America could blame him. Half of the adult Englands were pure sex on legs. And the other half were tightly wound balls of sexual repression. When the two came together it was like matter and anti-matter. America couldn't decide if it was going to end in a huge orgy or his house lit on fire. Maybe both.

Once they reached the landing on the first floor, they both heard the sound of clashing metal. It sounded like a sword fight.

"Is that what I think it is?" America asked, following Britain as the soldier continued running up the stairs. The sound was coming from the guest bedroom where they had left the gentleman, the angel, and the drunk. America ran faster, but he pulled to a shocked halt as he turned a corner and finally spotted what was causing the commotion. The pirate and the gentleman were dueling with swords. Actual swords!

"A low-born scoundrel like yourself could never understand the finer points of swordsmanship," the gentleman said as he parried the pirate's thrust.

The pirate smirked and swung again. "If yer life depended on the sword, ye'd know there be only one point that matters."

"Tsk! Your terrible grammar hurts me more than your pitiful dueling skills ever could."

America grinned in amazement. "You have a sword cane? That is so awesome!"

"We should stop them," Britain replied.

"Are you kidding? I should go make popcorn. This is like watching Errol Flynn and Cary Elwes duke it out in the best movie ever made."

The soldier rolled his eyes and strode forward, taking advantage of the pirate's focus on the duel to wallop him on the head with the butt of his pistol. The captain dropped his sword and went down like a rock. "Help me tie him up," Britain called to America as he gave the pirate a thorough pat-down search.

"I say! It wasn't gentlemanly to interrupt a duel in that manner," the Victorian England complained adamantly.

"To hell with manners, I want results!"

America shook his head and smiled. "It's a good thing there are so many of you, 'cause you keep dropping like flies," he teased as he lifted the unconscious pirate off the floor. He waited for the soldier to fetch a chair and rope, taking the time to examine the pirate more carefully. America felt sorry for him. He looked too young for his life of criminal conquest. They searched his pockets thoroughly once he was tied to the chair, but the halo was nowhere to be found. "So what now?" America asked.

The gentleman provided an unspoken answer by slapping the pirate's cheek. This time, his rough ministrations worked. Moaning groggily, the pirate slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes. He looked dazed and America suddenly felt bad for his role in knocking him out and tying him up. This personality was part of England and even if he was a jerk, he deserved America's protection as much as the others did.

The pirate's green eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened as he noticed the ropes binding his hands and legs to the chair. "So I'm to be yer prisoner, am I?"

"Just tell us where the halo is and we'll let you go," America promised.

"No," the pirate replied, spitting on the floor.

"Shall I slap him again?" the gentleman offered gallantly, holding his pristine white glove at the ready.

"No!" America said vehemently. He sighed and leaned down so he could look the pirate directly in the eyes, hoping he could convey his sincerity even to England's aggressive personality. "Dude, I know you didn't want to get split. But the sooner you help me get the halo, the sooner I can get you all back to normal."

"Ah, me lad, ye've made a grave mistake." The pirate smirked. "Ye think I want to return to bein' that pathetic barnacle ye call a nation?"

America scrunched his normal-sized eyebrows together in confusion. "Well, yeah. He's you. You're him. You are literally the same person."

"Oh, bravo on using 'literally' correctly!" the gentleman interjected gleefully.

The pirate snorted in derision. "You don't understand. England doesn't let some of us roam free anymore. He's forgotten what made him great."

"What makes England great is never giving in to threats. We can find the halo without his help," the soldier said, giving the pirate a cold stare.

"How about I propose a trade?" Captain Kirkland asked smirkingly. "I'll tell ye where to find the precious golden halo once America tells me who his favorite is."

"What?" America blinked. "How the hell am I supposed to have a favorite? I haven't even given you names. Speaking of which," he looked around and pointed at the various Englands, giving each a simple nickname: the soldier "Grumpy", the gentleman "Slap-Happy", the angel "Sleepy", the drunk "Tipsy", and the pirate "Sleazy".

Britain rolled his eyes. "No, you are not naming us after the Seven Dwarves."

"Oh, come on! I was gonna call the kid 'Bashful' and the punk 'Doc Martens'." America winked at the soldier and nudged him in the ribs. "Get it? Get it?"

"I don't think you're taking this seriously enough."

"I agree," the gentleman added with a harrumph. "And I must insist on being called Mister Slap-Happy, at the very least."

"Don't ye find these two as dull as a rusty old blade?" the pirate complained from the doorway. "Join me and the feisty lad if ye want some fun."

"Hey, you were tied up!" America protested, glancing between the pirate and the pile of ropes near the empty chair where he had been tied a moment earlier.

"Lad, there en't a knot in the world that Cap'n Kirkland can't untie," the pirate replied with a laugh and a tip of his extravagant feather hat as he sauntered out of the room. "Just remember my offer. I 'spect ye'll be needing it."

Chapter Text

"I would advise you against taking him up on his proposition," Britain warned as he watched the pirate captain leave the room with narrowed eyes.

"Oh?" America tilted his head to the side. "Which one?"

"Both of them! He's a liar and probably disease-ridden too... not that I care what you do."

"I think you mean who I do," America replied with a grin. He didn't understand why England's personalities fought as much as they did, but he kind of enjoyed being at the center of a love dodecahedron. It was like the anime harem comedies he watched with Japan. "Is it even cheating if it's with your split personality?" America mused, enjoying the way Britain's face went red.

"You can't honestly be thinking of docking in his harbor!" Britain sputtered.

America snorted and doubled over in helpless giggles.

"If nothing else, it's an intriguing etiquette question," the gentleman said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Can one properly engage in amorous relations with a distilled portion of a lover's personality? I shall have to consult Ms. Emily Post." He grabbed his sword cane―now safely sheathed―and bid them adieu with a tip of his top hat.

"Just stay out of the basement," Britain warned. "Not that there's much point in looking," he added after Mr. Kirkland left. "Someone I doubt that split personalities created by alien technology will be covered in a Victorian-era etiquette manual."

"Yeah, not to mention he's not gonna find an etiquette book in my house." America replied with a laugh. His grin softened as he walked over to the bed and gazed down at the two sleeping Englands. The angel looked as gorgeous as ever, his sandy blond hair spread out on the pillow like his missing halo. Even the drunkard looked pretty cute with his cheeks flushed red and a thin line of drool escaping his mouth. America grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and bent over to dry off the drool.

As America finished, the drunkard blinked up at him sleepily and smiled. "Mmm, a good kiss, weren't it?" he asked groggily, still tipsy despite his long nap. "Why'd we stop?"

"You passed out," America reminded him, helping the drunken nation to his feet and trying not to stare at his skimpy apron. No matter what the etiquette manual said, he didn't actually plan to sleep around with England's personalities. It seemed a little unfair to the real England. "Let's find you some clothes," he suggested in the interests of bolstering his flagging willpower.

"Whas wrong wit this?" the drunk pouted, gesturing at his lean hips and smooth abs.

"Uh..." America's gaze dropped as he followed a thin line of blond hair down from England's belly button to the V-shaped pelvic muscle lines at the edge of his apron. "Nothing, Iggy! I just... think you'd look even better wearing my jacket." He grinned and returned a moment later with his trademark article of clothing. The jacket was baggy on the Englishman, falling to his mid-thighs in a manner that America found immensely attractive. And the way the drunk cuddled up against the fur along the neck was too cute to handle. Maybe putting the bomber jacket on him wasn't as helpful as America had hoped. And this England hadn't even reacted angrily to the silly Japanese nickname! It was almost too easy to get England to agree to stuff while drunk.

"Ahhh, 's warm," Iggy said happily.

"Mmm," America agreed, trying to figure out why the temperature of the room had risen a few degrees. He glanced over and decided that it was probably because of the way Britain was glaring at him.

"Smells like hamburgers," Iggy added.

America's stomach growled.

"I'm feeling a mite peckish myself," Britain agreed. "But not for hamburgers."

"But hamburgers are the best!" America protested. Then he froze, realizing that he was in terrible danger. There were seven Englands in the house and it was dinnertime. What if one of them decided to start cooking? What if multiple Englands started cooking?! America gave the two Englands a manic grin. "Who wants pizza? I'm-gonna-call-in-an-order!" he shouted, racing to his telephone before anyone could disagree with his heroic plan. Sometimes being a hero meant ordering a dozen pizzas and paying extra for speed delivery. He hoped the pirate liked anchovies.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Dinner with the Englands was supremely awkward.

Britain and Mr. Manners sat on one side of the table daintily eating their slices with a fork and knife while the pirate and the punk snarfed down pizza with their hands. Everyone glared at everyone else, which, given the number of thick eyebrows, reminded America a little too much of the time he had lunch with England's brothers. Iggy was the only one who seemed to be having a good time. America's supply of hard liquor was gone, but Iggy had found the wine coolers, which were enough on their own to leave him thoroughly soused.

"So... if he's your low tolerance, does that mean the rest of you can't get drunk?" America wondered aloud.

"If ye're curious, we could hold a drinking contest," the pirate suggested with a wicked gleam in his eye.

America grinned. "That's an awesome idea!"

"That is a terrible idea," Britain said at the same time.

"I'm not opposed, but I must insist on a gentleman's drink like brandy or port."

The punk snorted. "You're such a knob, preening about your taste in alcohol. Let me tell you, the only difference between a gentleman and a yob is how nice their clothes look before they get completely arseholed."

"Huh?" America's mouth felt dry. He had no idea what the UK had just said, but somehow England's accent sounded even sexier than ever. It was too bad that as a 'gentleman', England avoided using his really fun slang.

"You're forgetting that the rum is gone," Britain noted.

America frowned. There was a thought nagging in the back of his head... he felt like he was forgetting something important. Or maybe... someone important?

The pirate shrugged. "We can raid the merchants."

"Purchasing food and drink is a task for servants," Mr. Kirkland complained. "We should send the errand boy who brought the pizza pie."

"I don't have an errand boy," America replied unthinkingly before he slapped his forehead. "Shit! I've forgotten about little England!"

"Yes," the gentleman agreed. "He'll do. Let's put the child to work."

"Charles Dickens isn't a how-to manual, you toffee-nosed bugger!" the punk yelled, slamming his hands on the table.

Ignoring the fight, America rescued what was left of the pizza and set a few slices on his plate. He could see that his motion-sensor security lights were on outside, which gave him a clue about the kid's location. Somehow it didn't surprise him that little England felt most comfortable sleeping under the stars. "Okay, Englands," America announced as he pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. "I'm gonna find the kiddo and introduce him to the wonders of pizza."

"I suppose you expect me to keep these four under control?" Britain asked with a long-suffering sigh.

"That'd be great!" America grinned and blew the soldier a kiss. "Thanks, babe!"

ߛ ߛ ߛ

It was still light enough to see, but the dark blue sky told America that he didn't have much time to find the child before nightfall. "Artie?" he called as he wandered through his backyard and tried to see if Little England would respond to different names. "Mini-Iggy? Where are you?"

No one responded, but eventually he noticed a dim glow in the woods. America picked his way through branches and brambles, careful not to drop the pizza. The dim shape resolved itself into a small, cloaked figure standing next to a glowing circle made of sticks and dirt and what appeared to be fireflies.

The child watched America warily as he approached. "My name is Albion," he replied.

"Okay, Albie. Whatcha doing?" America asked.

"Magic," the child responded in a serious voice.

America hid a smile. "What kind of magic?" he asked indulgently. It was silly for an adult like England to believe in magic, but cute in a child. Kids were supposed to have wild imaginations.

"I want to be an adult again."

"Cool." America chuckled. "I'm glad at least one of you wants to go back to normal. Seriously, I don't know why the other Englands are acting so weird." He sighed. "Anyway, do you think you can take a break for some food? It's really tasty..."

The boy glanced at the food and hesitantly inched closer. He lifted a slice from the plate and carefully nibbled on the edge of the pizza. Once he was satisfied that it was safe to eat, he quickly finished the slice and grabbed another. He ate this one slowly, taking a few bites as he started to yawn.

"So how's the spell coming?" America asked, resisting the urge to ruffle the boy's messy hair. The child seemed much more relaxed compared to their first meeting, but he didn't want to scare him off again.

Albion pouted adorably. "It's not working!"

"Aww... maybe you'll have better luck if you get some sleep."

"A bed sounds nice," the boy said wistfully, "but I can't sleep inside."

"Why not?"

"Because then the fairies can't find me!"

"Well, I can open a window," America offered.

"Do you think that would work?" the boy asked, his green eyes cautiously peering up at America from beneath messy bangs.

"Sure!" America lied breezily. As far as he was concerned, Albion would see exactly the same number of fairies inside the house as outside the house, so he might as well sleep in a soft, warm bed. "Do you want to come inside, Albie?" he asked, offering his hand.

"My name is Albion," the boy complained, but he nevertheless reached out to grip the older nation's hand. America smiled giddily as they walked together back to the house. He was starting to see why England often reminisced about how cute he had been as a child. The boy was pretty adorable now that he wasn't trying to shoot him with a bow and arrow outside his window.

The kitchen was thankfully empty, so America led the child upstairs to his own bedroom. He wanted the poor kid to have the nicest, softest bed. But first he took Albion into the bathroom and lent him a spare toothbrush. The boy brushed very thoroughly when America reminded him that the fairies might avoid the bedroom if he had bad breath.

"Do you want me to stay?" America asked as he tucked the child under the blankets.

"No." Albion shook his head. Despite the heavy-lidded sleepiness, his eyes still looked a little wary. "Window."

"Right." America easily lifted the window open a few inches, letting a gentle evening breeze waft into the bedroom. He turned around to find Albion snoring under the covers. America smiled at the way the boy had completely zonked out after the day's adventures. He walked over to the side of the bed quietly and planted a soft kiss on the boy's forehead. "Sleep tight," America whispered as he closed the door behind him.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

America peeked into the other guest bedrooms and found that the angel was still sleeping while Britain and Mr. Kirkland sat quietly reading. America imagined that Britain had found a war history book (America had plenty of those!), but he had no idea what the gentleman might be reading.

"Whatcha reading, Kirky?" America asked as he leaned against the doorway.

The gentleman's eyebrow twitched violently. "First of all, my name is Mister Kirkland, and second of all, this is a present I gave you for your Sesquicentennial and you haven't even touched it!" He lifted up a first edition of Etiquette by Emily Post.

"Okay, I might not know much about manners, but at least when I give gifts I try to find stuff that the person will actually like!" America complained. "You didn't have to rub it in my face that you still considered me a country bumpkin."

"You thought it was an insult?" the gentleman asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Well, duh."

"But Ms. Post is an American authoress. I had thought that you would appreciate it." The gentleman sighed. "Though I suppose there's some small advantage to your ignoring the gift. A first edition in mint condition is probably worth 9,000 quid."

"I'm not selling it!" America protested.

"Why not? You didn't even remember you owned it."

"Because it was a gift," America said, unsure how to explain that he could never bear to part with something that England had given him, even if it involved bad memories. There was a reason his storage room was getting full.

"Well then, there's hope for you yet," Mr. Kirkland replied with a smile. "A gentleman would never dream of selling a gift. Though if you had actually read it, you wouldn't have seen the book as an insult." He flipped to the final page and began to read aloud in a clear, crisp voice: "It is no idle boast that the world is at present looking toward America. The other countries are old, we are youth personified! We have all youth's glorious beauty and strength and vitality and courage. If we can keep these attributes and add finish and understanding and perfect taste in living and thinking, we need not dwell on the Golden Age that is past, but believe in the Golden Age that is sure to be." He glanced up at America. "See? I thought you would appreciate the way that exquisite manners were being cultivated on your own soil."

"Huh." America blinked, surprised that England had given him a book that even acknowledged America's youth in a positive manner. "So does this mean you're not gonna get mad if I call you old?"

Mr. Kirkland closed the book with a clap. "Don't test your luck," he warned.

Chapter Text

Dealing with seven different Englands was tiring, but unlike Britain and Mr. Kirkland, America was not an old man who went to bed before ten. Not to mention, he wasn't entirely sure where he would be sleeping for the night since he had lent his bed to the youngest England.

In search of late-night entertainment, America wandered down to the ground floor. His ears perked up as he heard the sound of a song from Guitar Hero playing in the background. Somehow he wasn't surprised to see the punk's green hair peeking over the top of his sofa and the pirate's feathered hat resting on the corner of the sofa as they sat playing games in front of his large-screen television. As America got closer, he noticed that Iggy was also playing, although his efforts were mostly demonstrating why drunken karaoke was a terrible idea.

America grinned as he leaned over the sofa. "Hey, guys! Mind if I join?"

The fun Englands made room for him on the couch, although it wasn't really big enough for four people, even if three of them were technically just one person. America ended up with his thigh pressed against the pirate's lean thigh and the drunk's solid, warm body draped over his side. Fortunately, Captain Kirkland was so focused on the game that he didn't bother trying to seduce America. (Although America generally liked England's seductive ways, he was pretty sure that the pirate had an ulterior motive.)

"Why ish it so hard?" Iggy complained as he bombed another song. He sighed and let his head rest on America's shoulder. England was normally too reserved to lean against America, but his inhibitions always went out the window once he started drinking.

America blushed at the drunk's affectionate gesture and tried to think of cold showers and focus on the video game. Captain Kirkland and the punk were both surprisingly good players, and America found it difficult to stay in the lead. He swore as he missed a note at the end of the song, letting the punk win the highest score. "I thought you hated video games," America complained.

The punk smirked. "True, but I love guitars."

They played late into the night, finishing most of the Guitar Hero songs, and then later switching to Assassin's Creed Black Flag (which the captain wanted to play because it involved pirating, sea shanties, and sinking Spanish ships, his three favorite activities). As much as he loved video games, even America found himself dozing off to sleep in the early morning hours.

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America woke up with a crick in his neck and a warm body curled up against his side. Over the sound of the television, still stuck on the game's main menu, he could hear Britain's voice nagging in his ear. "America! You were supposed to be at work 15 minutes ago!"

"Bwuh?" America replied, finding it hard to think before he had his cup of morning joe. Sitting up on the sofa, he found that Iggy was still passed out on top of him. He moved the nation to the side, which turned out to be a poor decision. Jostled into wakefulness, Iggy tried to stagger to the bathroom, but ended up vomiting all over America's shirt and the sofa. "Dude! Gross!" Now America remembered why he considered England's low tolerance for alcohol to be an annoying part of the island nation's personality.

"Serves you right. Perhaps if you hadn't fallen asleep next to a drunk whilst playing video games you wouldn't be in this position," Britain replied with a decided lack of sympathy.

"I'm sorry to be such a disappointment, Mom," America grumbled as he pulled off his puke-covered shirt and tossed it into the trash can. He wasn't going to clean it and he certainly didn't feel like wearing it again.

"M sorry," Iggy whispered, his voice harsh and raspy.

"Nah, it's okay, I should've done a better job of hiding the alcohol before you came to visit," America replied. Still shirtless and still ignoring Britain's judgmental look, he led the extremely hungover nation to the nearest bathroom. Two warm showers, two aspirins, and twenty minutes later, at least neither of them smelled like vomit, which was more than America could say for the couch. He snuck into his bedroom and grabbed a new shirt while Albion continued to sleep, curled in a ball of blankets like a frightened hedgehog. America wished there was more he could do to make the child feel safe and welcome, but at the moment it seemed best to let him sleep.

After calling his assistant to let her know that he was staying home because his boyfriend was sick (technically true!), America stared into his cup of coffee and sighed. He didn't know what to do with the Englands (especially the ones that refused to kiss him), and he didn't even know if he could return them to normal until he found the angel's halo. In light of those problems, at least Iggy's hangover seemed relatively minor.

"You want some coffee?" he asked Iggy.

"I want to die," Iggy moaned, burying his face into his arms.

"Hey, it's just a hangover, babe, it'll go away eventually. And at least a hangover is easier to solve than a halo-less angel."

Iggy mumbled something about a halo against his arms.

America leaned forward. "What'd ya say?"

The hungover nation looked up and blinked bloodshot eyes. "Give 'im yer halo," he repeated, his raspy voice a little louder than before.

"What halo?"

"Last night. On the shelves."

"Oh. Halo!" America's face brightened in understanding. He knew the game that Iggy was referring to. "Hey, maybe that would work. Thanks, Iggy!" Leaving behind his cup of coffee, America returned to his collection of video games and found his copy of 'Halo'. Perhaps it was a stupid idea, but it was worth a try.

America raced up to the angel's guest bedroom and, once inside, removed the CD from the box. It was shiny and ring-shaped, so that counted for something, right? He gently placed the CD on the pillow above the angel's head. He offered up a quick prayer that his video game would provide an acceptable substitute for the stolen halo. But as watched the sleeping nation's chest slowly rise and fall, nothing changed. The halo-less angel remained unconscious, insensible without his holy accouterments. Using a stupid video game had been too much to hope for. Feeling a growing sense of disappointment, America kicked himself for letting the drunkard's ramblings raise his hopes.

But just as he turned to leave, he heard a soft voice call his name. "America?"

The blond nation whirled around and gasped in excitement. "You're awake!" he cried happily as he dashed back to the angel's bedside, pulling the poor nation into a tight hug. The angel's wings fluffed out as America let go. He looked bleary-eyed and adorable with his messy hair and rumpled toga.

"What's this?" Britannia Angel asked as he delicately lifted his fingers above his head, feeling the floating CD. He scrunched his thick eyebrows in confusion, which merely served to make him even cuter than before.

"It's Halo," America explained.

"It feels… different."

"Yeah, I couldn't find your halo, so I got you a replacement!"

"Oh, I see." The angel smiled. "Thank you," he said softly, leaning in to give America a soft peck on the cheek. "You're quite the hero, aren't you?"

"That's me!" America smiled joyfully. Between the kiss, the compliment, and the joy of seeing the angel wake up, he felt like he was going to melt from happiness.

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The happiness was short-lived. To America's chagrin, the angel insisted on thanking him for his help with baking. England's baking was something to be feared, but America just couldn't say no once a soft smile and adoring eyes lit up the angel's face. It was rare to see England looking so genuinely happy and lovey-dovey. (And even rarer to see him put on the frilly apron that America had given him as a gag gift, insisting that England was only allowed to cook in his house if he wore the ruffled apron while cooking.)

"It's ready!" the angel said happily, lifting an angel-food cake out of the oven and placing it in front of America. The cake actually seemed to be a normal color, so America braced himself for a cautious bite. He gulped down the tasty food and stared at it in shock.

"My god." America took another bite. "This is…" - another bite - "actually delicious!"

"Thank you! I did my best!" the angel replied, graciously accepting the backhanded compliment. He smiled sweetly and ducked his head. If he was upset that America had implicitly insulted his usual cooking, he didn't make a fuss.

"Want some, Iggy?" America offered.

"Not hungry," the hungover nation moaned against the table.

"Too bad." America chewed another bite. "It's really good!"

"If only your manners were equally good. I can hear you chewing with your mouth open from here," Mr. Kirkland complained grumpily from the other end of the table as he sipped his breakfast tea.

"Hey, mmm some cultures… it's mmm compliment…" America said as he continued to talk while chewing.

"I think his enthusiasm is sweet," the angel insisted.

America happily devoured several more slices of cake while Britannia Angel finished cleaning up the kitchen, leaving it neater than when he started. He even re-warmed America's coffee and, after leaving the room for a few moments, announced that he had cleaned the puke off of the living room sofa.

"Seriously?" America gaped. "You're the best England ever!"

"Ah-hem!" the gentleman scoffed. "Those sound like fighting words."

The angel stepped between them with a pleading expression and limpid green eyes. "Please, don't fight! We all love each other, right?"

"We do but…" America rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Britain won't admit it, Mr. Kirkland here probably thinks I need to ask the Queen for his hand, and the captain just wants my booty."

"He wants your…oh my!" The angel blushed. "Well, don't worry, love; I'll protect you from that naughty man."

"Yeah… about that…" America chuckled uncomfortably, not sure if he should explain that he didn't really want protection from the pirate's 'naughtiness'. In fact, the pirate's healthy sexual appetite was probably the aspect of the personality that America enjoyed most. He loved that England was clear and enthusiastic about what he wanted in the bedroom and always eager to try out new things.

Britannia Angel just smiled demurely and shook his head. "How does a walk in the garden sound?"

America wasn't much for flowers, but he thought it sounded awesome.

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They walked through America's backyard with their fingers entwined as the angel enjoyed the beautiful summer wildflowers, pointing out the interesting species and plucking a few flowers along the path. The angel's face was wreathed in smiles with nary a sarcastic or biting comment to be heard. It was perfect for about half an hour, until America realized that he missed England's dry wit. Sure, he also liked the angel's soft, adoring smiles, but Britannia Angel was so sweet that America started to wonder if he could get diabetes from the angel's constant stream of dulcet affection.

"Look love, Forget-me-Nots! Those used to be one of your favorites."

"Yeah," America stared at the flowers with a bittersweet taste in his mouth. "I'm getting thirsty," he said, "let's go back inside."

Once inside the kitchen, they found that Iggy was sober enough to have started drinking again, with the pirate and the punk joining him for mid-morning Bloody Marys.

"You!" the angel gasped. The pirate knocked back his chair in his rush to stand, but the angel was the faster draw. With a burst of smoke and a cry of "Hoata~!" the angel used his wand to transform both the pirate and the punk into young children while America looked on in shock.

Iggy blinked. "Oh no, you shouldn't drink these," he said as he stole their cocktails for himself.

"There!" Britannia Angel nodded in satisfaction. "Now no-one can threaten my sweet America's virtue."

Chapter Text

"Change me back! Change me back!" the child pirate yelled at the angel. His clothes had shrunk as part of the spell, with his miniaturized feathered hat still tipped at a rakish angle.

Before the pirate could take another step, Britannia Angel floated out of reach, smiling and holding his star-tipped wand above his head. "Say the magic words."

The little pirate gave a mighty glare. "Never."

"Why did you change me too?" the little punk complained, his small arms crossed against his chest. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"I could see the way you looked at him."

"Yeah, it probably looks a lot like the way America is staring at your bum right now," Iggy interrupted, grinning as he took a swig directly from the bottle. They all stared at America, who was in fact, taking advantage of his position below the floating angel to enjoy the view.

"Oh my!" The angel gasped and tugged down on the toga to cover his upper legs.

America blushed and tried to pretend that he hadn't been caught staring. It was still a mystery why someone so focused on protecting innocence would fly around in a tiny toga with no underpants, but America was very grateful that he did. Annoyed, he grabbed the bottle out of Iggy's hands and poured the alcohol into the sink. "Ignore him, he's drunk. I'm cutting him off before he pukes on anyone else."

"No!" Iggy sobbed, falling to his knees as the alcohol swirled down the drain. "Not the rum!"

The noisy kitchen soon attracted more of England's personalities. "What is going on here?" Mr. Kirkland demanded a few moments later as he stepped into the room. "I was trying to read, but you're all being far too loud." His gaze swept over the little pirate and little punk trying to catch the flying angel, as well as the drunk crying about spilt rum.

"I think that substitute halo might explain why there are more children running around," Britain said conversationally as he followed the gentleman through the doorway. He glanced at the sink and the sobbing drunk. "Pity about the rum though."

"No matter. It was never my drink," Mr. Kirkland replied, dismissing the rum pity party with a wave of his well-manicured hand.

"America," the soldier called, pushing his way through the children to reach him. "The only way to stop this madness is with keen military discipline. I've found a suitable obstacle course, and I suggest we go for training this afternoon," he added, handing over a map.

Glancing down at the location, America grinned. "The Adventure Park? Sure, dude!"

"This isn't a game," Britain warned. "I'm merely interested in physical training."

"Right." America snorted as he rolled his eyes. England's soldier personality reminded him of Germany. It made him wonder what Germany might be hiding beneath his calm, efficient, brusque exterior. Whatever it was, it probably explained how the stodgy German managed to put up with his scatter-brained Italian lover.

Iggy staggered to his feet. "Do they have alcohol?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope! Just tons of ladders and ropes and trees to climb around on. Ooh, and zip lines! They're cords that let you go really fast from platform to platform. It's hella fun."

"Ah." Iggy turned a little green. "That sounds… dizzying."

America bit his lip. As much as he wanted to play around on the ropes, even he could see that taking a tipsy England would be a bad idea. "Hey, it's okay, sweetheart," he said as he helped the tipsy nation toward the stairs. "We can go some other time."

He led Iggy back to his bed and offered him some painkillers that knocked the Englishman into deep sleep. America smiled as he brushed Iggy's bangs to the side and kissed his warm forehead. England was rarely sick nowadays, which made America happy, but he missed having the chance to take care of him. He found his cold compress that was shaped like a hamburger (everything was better with hamburgers!) and placed it on the other nation's forehead.

America wasn't sure what would happen if England's drunken personality was deprived of all alcohol. But as much fun as a drunken England was on occasion, he hated the idea of England staying drunk all the time. Even a nation's body couldn't handle that much abuse. And the whole reason that a roaring drunk Englishman was funny was because he would say and do things that he would never dream of doing sober. If he was drunk all the time, what was the point? America turned around as he heard a gentle sigh from the doorway.

"You're so much kinder when I'm intoxicated," Mr. Kirkland noted with an arched eyebrow "Sometimes I think you love me best when I'm helpless."

"Hey, that's not true!" America protested. "I love you all the time. But you don't need my help when you're being feisty and kickass."

"No, I suppose not." The gentleman smiled at him and took a seat next to the bed. "You should go with the others to your Park of Adventure. I'll watch him."

"Really?" America asked in excitement. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I'll finally be able to finish my book in peace and quiet."

Remembering his manners, America gallantly lifted the gentleman's hand and planted a delicate kiss on his fingers. "Thank you, darling," he said with a southern accent, a wink, and a grin.

"You're welcome," Mr. Kirkland replied as he opened his book and set it across his knees. It wasn't until America was nearly out the door that he added, "Perhaps heroes and gentlemen aren't so different after all."

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The process of rounding up the remaining Englands went relatively easily, except that Britannia Angel didn't seem to grasp the concept of 'normal' clothes. America had told him to change into something less obtrusive, but he returned to find the angel wearing a short, pink, nurse's outfit. To be fair, the nurse's cap at the top did do a good job of hiding the angel's halo.

"You can't wear that," America tried to explain. "It's uh… for private stuff."

The angel tilted his head to the side. "But why would I dress as a nurse if I'm not a licensed medical professional?" he asked innocently.

"Well…" America considered telling him that it was because his legs went on for miles and he looked damn good in any sort of short skirt, but given the angel's blushing reaction to the earlier toga incident, he decided against it. "Just trust me. That'll get you more stares than the toga."

They finally found a hoodie (to hide the wings and halo) and a pair of short khakis that satisfied the angel's desire for light, comfortable clothing. He'd still get a lot of stares (kind of inevitable given England's legs), but at least no one would gawk because his clothing was unusual.

"Wow," America whistled, admiring how cute the angel looked in his shorts-and-hoodie combination. "I'll grab Albion, and let's roll."

Convincing the distrustful child to join them proved easier than America expected. All he had to do was explain that they would be climbing and swinging from tree to tree, and Albion was eager to go. He even insisted—quite adorably—that the forest might have fairies.

When they arrived, Albion didn't see any fairies. But he did discover an 11-course wonderland stretching across the forest canopy. Hooked to safety harnesses, people glided, climbed, and swung from platform to platform across obstacles that tested their balance and strength. And when they grew tired of climbing around, they could fly across the river on a zip line.

"I want to do the Commando route!" the little pirate instantly demanded, pointing to the most difficult course in the adventure park.

"Children aren't allowed on the black diamond routes," a young woman called. She directed the children to the yellow 'Sunflower' route instead.

"Sorry, kiddo," America said.

"I'm not a child. I'm a captain!"

"Captain? More like cabin boy," America teased, pushing the children to the easier trail. They complained, but relented when they noticed the tire swing and trampoline at the end of the course. Even though England was an old man, his childish personalities still liked to play. It was too bad his adult personalities made up for it by being sticks in the mud. Even the soldier, who had suggested the idea in the first place, didn't seem particularly excited by the courses.

"All right. Let's get down to business," Britain said briskly.

"…to defeat the Huns!" America sang cheerfully.

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Mulan was a great film!"

"You think all Disney films are great films."

"They are!"

Britain rolled his eyes and sighed. He tried to explain his training plan, but America gleefully ignored him as soon as he was safely tucked into his harnesses. The American scampered up to the wooden platform that marked the beginning of the toughest course. With a jaunty wave to the annoyed soldier, he dashed across the rolling stairs and swung to the next platform.

America slipped on the balance beam, but used his momentum to swing his safety harness to the next platform. He clipped on to the next line and glanced behind to find the soldier on his heels. Uh oh. Britain was chasing him and closing the distance fast. Maybe thinking that he could outrun an English soldier in an old-growth forest wasn't his best plan. America tried to maintain his lead, racing from obstacle to obstacle at breakneck speeds, but he found himself tackled from behind on the final platform.

"Oomph." America landed heavily and rolled to the side to get out from underneath Britain. They wrestled for control and managed to tangle themselves in the ropes and harnesses until they were pressed together chest to chest, both breathing heavily, with America sandwiched between Britain's body and the platform. When further tugging resulted in the ropes tangling even more, Britain finally stopped moving and tried to catch his breath.

"That wasn't part of my plan," he complained between pants.

America grinned. "Admit it. You liked it."

"Perhaps a little."

"I like this part best," America said as he closed the small distance between them and kissed the soldier on the lips. Instead of yelling or complaining, the Englishman kissed him back, his heart pounding strongly against America's chest. For all his protests and denials, he kissed hungrily and passionately, a hint of bitter tea on his tongue. America worked his arms through the harnesses as he wrapped them around the other nation's waist, pulling him even closer. The warm body pressed against him was a perfect fit. America left the soft lips behind and began kissing Britain along his jaw and neck, peppering kisses on the Englishman's warm skin. "You don't have to be so tough and stiff all the time," he whispered into Britain's ear. "It's okay to relax and have fun."

The soldier arched an eyebrow. "I thought you liked it when I'm stiff."

America snorted at the innuendo. "Ha! Better watch out or you'll get turned into a kid too."

They turned to see the angel flying through the course looking for America. With the soldier's impressive rope skills, they managed to untangle themselves before the angel could spot them and pull out his wand. Britain, sensing that discretion was the greater part of valor, left to try another course, while America dropped to the ground to see how the children were faring.

He had to smile when he found the punk and pirate jury-rigging the sound system to play Wizard Rock, or "Wrock" as the kids called it, throughout the entire park. England wasn't even particularly good with technology, but apparently anyone in the body of a six-year old automatically developed an intuitive ability to understand electronics. And of course the little Englands would pick something related to Harry Potter.

"Have you two seen Albion?" America asked.

The boys shrugged. "He left to go play with his invisible friends," the punk explained.

America began searching the park and soon realized that trying to find a small forest child in the middle of a forest was not his best plan ever. Albion dressed in dark green and was very good at hiding. There was no way America would find him unless he wanted to be found.

It made America sad to think about it as he wandered beneath the trees, hoping that Albion would show up. The young England excelled at hiding and distrusted strangers because he had grown up without anyone to protect him. As much as America had chafed under the control of the British Empire, he knew that his own childhood had been pampered compared to England's. They didn't discuss the past much, but on the infrequent occasions when America thought about their history together, he acknowledged to himself that the fond memories outweighed the bad. England had been the one constant in his life, and it was nice to know that he had always remained in England's heart even when politics and geography pulled them apart.

America walked until he reached the end of the park and did the best thing he could think of. He sat down on a tree stump and hummed Greensleeves. It had been one of England's favorites, and if he was being honest, America would admit that he liked the bittersweet melody too.

He turned when he heard a twig crack and saw Albion approaching him from the side.

"You having fun in the trees?" America asked.

The boy nodded.

"Find any fairies?"

The boy shook his head.

America stared up into the sun-speckled leaves and asked a question that had been bugging him for the past day. "How come you wanted to change back into an adult? Everyone else seems pretty happy to stay the way they are."

"Because adults are big and strong. They can protect themselves."

America felt his heart break a little. He opened up his arms and gently closed them around Albion as the boy tentatively accepted his hug. "I'm here to protect you," he promised.

"You've left me before," the boy whispered.

"I know," America said sadly. And the problem was, he couldn't promise that it would never happen again. They both knew that nations were beholden to demands beyond their own personal feelings. "I'm sorry I hurt you, England."

Albion sniffled as he buried his face into America's neck. "And I've hurt you."

"Yeah." America moved the child to a more comfortable position on his hip and stood up. "Well, now we know what not to do. So we'll get it right this time."

The child wrapped his arms more tightly around America's neck. The American smiled as he heard Albion finishing the lyrics to Greensleeves under his breath.

Greensleeues now farewel adue,
God I pray to prosper thee:
For I am stil thy louer true,
Come once againe and loue me.

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They found Britain waiting for them near the entrance, holding the pirate and punk by their ears. "These two were caught mucking with the sound system," he explained.

"Really?" America feigned innocence.

Britannia Angel was wringing his hands. "I thought that making them younger would make them more innocent! Do you think I need to change them to babies?"

"No, change me back!" the formerly-captain Kirkland protested.

"Let's just go home," America suggested. He smiled when the three children fell asleep on the car ride back. England really did make a cute child. Although having England split into different personalities was complicating his life, America was glad that he at least had a chance to see little England.

"I don't think that our training exercise was particularly successful," the soldier noted glumly.

"Are you kidding? I had an awesome time!" America grinned and gave him a wink. "And I really liked the last part of the course. Too bad we didn't get a chance to finish." It struck him that dating England in general was like the rush of running an obstacle course. He was never sure which personality would come to the forefront, but they were all exciting and intriguing.

"Perhaps later," Britain suggested slyly.

"Definitely," America happily agreed, with the angel none the wiser.

Chapter Text

"Hi honeys, I'm home!" America called as he stepped through the front doorway. He grinned and waited for a reply. He didn't actually expect England to act like a 1950s sitcom housewife (and he was glad that England didn't see it as his duty to cook), but it was always fun to tease him anyway. "Iggy? Mr. Kirkland?" he called again when he received no response.

"They're probably still upstairs," Britain suggested as he led the three children into the house.

"And that's where these three should go," Britannia Angel agreed. "It's time for bed."

"Captains," the little pirate yawned, "don't have bedtimes."

"Only old people go to bed this early," the young punk complained with the impeccable logic of a six-year old.

America laughed. "England you are old."

"At least that one seems ready for a kip," Britain remarked, pointing to Albion's droopy eyes. After all of his tree climbing, the boy looked ready to fall asleep on his feet.

America smiled and lifted the sleepy child into his arms, pleased that the boy now trusted him enough to curl up against his chest. It was hard to imagine that this was the same boy who had threatened him with a bow and arrow just days ago. "I'll put him to bed, and you can handle the other two," he suggested.

"Why do I get the difficult ones?" Britain complained.

"Hey, you've raised tons of colonies. You should be used to it!"

The pirate poked Britain in the side. "Tag, you're it!" he shouted as he and the punk raced off in different directions. America laughed, earning himself another exasperated look from the soldier before the other nation turned around and chased after the two difficult children. America continued chuckling to himself while he carried Albion up the stairs.

"Honestly, England always goes on about how cute I was," he told Britannia Angel as he tucked the child into bed, "but I think he could have given me a run for my money."

"Running money?" Albion asked drowsily.

"See, that's what I mean. Fricking adorable." America leaned forward and pressed his nose against Albion's nose. He gently wiggled his head back and forth, nuzzling the boy with an Eskimo kiss. He leaned back and smiled before he realized his mistake. "Wait, shit, I'm not supposed to swear in front of kids. Uh, pretend you didn't hear that."

"It's all right, love. I don't think he heard you," the angel said with a soft smile, nodding at the already slumbering child. "And for the record, I think you're still cute."

America grinned. "Cute like puppy-cute or boyfriend-cute?"

"As sweet and innocent as a child," the angel replied. He pinched America's cheeks, leaving a rosy mark, and then gracefully flew out of the room.

Once he was sure the angel was out of hearing range, America swore under his breath, "Damn."

He was going to have a hard time convincing Britannia Angel to return the pirate and punk to normal as long as the angel saw him as a sweet, innocent child in need of protection. He would have thought that two world wars would be enough to convince England to see him as an adult, but apparently it took more than that to overcome a century of memories of caring for a sweet tow-headed boy with sparkling blue eyes. He needed to show the angel that he was all grown up. With a grin, America quickly developed a plan. All he needed to do was show off his adult interests, right? And he knew exactly who he needed as his back up.

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"Still no luck?" America asked, chuckling when he found Britain searching through his broom closet. Since America loved the latest gadgets, it was really more of a roomba closet.

Britain closed the door with an exasperated sigh. "It's not my fault your house is too large."

America slipped in front of him before he could open the next door—which led to America's storage room. He pressed his back against the door and winked at the other nation. "I've got a better idea. Let's play Hide and No Seek with them."

"Oh?" Britain arched an eyebrow. "You have something better in mind?"

"Yeah." America pulled him closer and started fingering the buttons on Britain's crisp button-down. "I'm thinking about how good you look in a uniform."

"Keep talking."

"I've got a bobby uniform with your name on it." America grinned. He could see the hint of a glowing halo at the end of the hall coming their way. He decided to pull out the big guns. "And the only thing I like better than getting you into a uniform is getting you out of one."

"Mmm, I agree," Britain whispered as he leaned in to kiss America, his lips warm and strong. This wasn't about control or dominance. This was love between equals, allies, friends. As he pressed closer, America could feel the heat and passion build between them, like a blazing fire; and later, he knew, they would cuddle and share the warmth of the embers.

Although he had loved England as a child, and he loved England still, it wasn't the same love. America himself couldn't point to the moment when he had shifted from one to the other, but he wanted Britannia Angel to see that he was all grown up now. Unfortunately, he had failed to account for the angel's impressive interception skills.

"America! Iggy and Mr. Kirkland are fighting in the kitchen!" the angel cried. He then covered his mouth and gasped. "What is he doing with his tongue and your buttons and… oh… oh my…" he said, his voice growing faint as the angel swayed and looked like he might faint from shock.

Looking between the flushed soldier and the pale angel, America felt torn. Still, even in a choice between two Englands, America could never ignore his heroic impulses. He stepped next to the angel and slipped an arm around his waist to steady him and save him from hitting the floor if he swooned. America glanced up to see the soldier giving him an exasperated look. Okay, maybe that hadn't been the best plan in the world. And now the angel was probably going to use his wand to change Britain into a child too.

"Thank you, love," the angel said with a suspiciously steady voice as soon as Britain had rolled his eyes and left. "I'm feeling much better now."

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The angel might have fooled America with his pretend fainting spell, but he wasn't lying about the fight in the kitchen. America walked into the room and discovered himself in the midst of a culinary war zone. Wherever he turned, he saw open cabinets and random bottles strewn across the counters. And at the center stood Iggy and Mr. Kirkland, arguing quietly but fiercely.

"…look, it says right in the Pledge, 'except as medicine,'" Iggy complained as he waved a scrap of paper in front of the other England's nose.

The gentleman scoffed and shook his head. "Curing your throbbing, alcohol-induced headache is hardly a medicinal purpose. If that were the case, the Temperance Pledge would mean nothing at all. I refuse to help you continue your debauchery."

"Hey, you guys haven't been trying to cook have you?" America interrupted, a twinge of worry in his voice. He wasn't sure what 'debauchery' meant, but it sounded French. He eyed the kitchen shelves warily, as if his food might start to attack.

"Cooking?" Iggy blinked at America and suddenly grinned. "Yes, you're a genius! I want to cook. You must have cooking wine somewhere," he pleaded as he desperately grabbed America's arm.

"Seriously, dude? Do I look like France?" America chuckled, but he regretted the joke as soon as Iggy's face transformed into a tearful scowl.

"He won't help me! You won't help me. To hell with you both!"

"You really shouldn't swear," the angel protested from the doorway.

"I agree. It's not very gentlemanly."

The drunkard crossed his arms. "I'll swear if I damn well please."

"Let me check your temperature, sweetheart." America placed his hand against Iggy's forehead and frowned. Iggy's skin felt cold and clammy. The poor nation was pale and trembling, his eyes bloodshot. He wasn't suffering from a hangover anymore, America realized, these were full-on withdrawal symptoms. "I think I know something else that will make you feel better. At least, it's always left you relaxed and happy in the past." America winked.

"Don't you even think about it," the angel muttered, narrowing his eyes.

America grinned. "Think about what? I was gunna suggest tea," he said, feigning innocence. "Oooh, you thought I was thinking about se—"

"Tea! Of course! What a lovely idea," the angel interrupted again and gently whisked items off the kitchen counters. "I'll clean up this little mess and brew us a pot, shall I?"

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The tea did help, but America was still tempted to rename the drunk Grumpy by the end of the pot. He almost regretted taking away Iggy's alcohol, since sobriety just seemed to bring out England's cantankerous personality in full force. Iggy railed against the angel's prudishness and then complained that the gentleman was a stick in the mud. Sure, America was inclined to agree, but he was also worried about the extent to which England's personalities seemed to genuinely hate each other. How was America supposed to convince them to return to being one person if they didn't even like being in the same room together?

America sighed. "Dude, you're all England! Why can't you all get along?" he eventually asked during a break in Iggy's rant.

The drunkard and gentleman stared at each other, but each refused to take responsibility.

"He doesn't appreciate any of the finer qualities of life," the gentleman sniffed.

"He thinks that doing crossword puzzles and needlepoint counts as having a life."

"Iggy, I know I'm not a huge fan of your obsession with etiquette and shit, but I think you could be a little nicer to yourself."

"Hey! They're the ones who don't fancy a bevy and always turn up their noses at a bit of rumpy pumpy," Iggy complained, waving his hand at the angel and the gentleman. "If I say prick, he probably thinks I'm talking about needlepoint."

"Guys."

"Excuse me! I'll have you know that needlepoint is an eminently pleasant hobby."

"Guys!" America shouted, finally drawing their attention back to him. He decided they should focus on their one area of agreement. "Look, how about Mr. Feathers brews you another cup, okay?" he suggested.

They waited in silence for the kettle to boil, and America thought he was doing fairly well in the diplomacy department, until he heard Iggy mutter under his breath, "Do you really want to know why we fight? It's because I don't like who I am." His expression grew morose as he stared into his empty tea cup. "Can you blame me? Even you don't like all of me."

"What? That's not true!" America protested.

"You did say that you don't care for etiquette," the gentleman reminded him.

"Okay, not on its own," America admitted, "but you being a gentleman and a secret sex fiend is awesome! Nobody would expect it! I mean, I don't really like rum either, but if you mix it together with coke? Man, it's like the best stuff ever."

Iggy winced. "Did you have to mention alcohol?"

"Oops." America rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. The tea kettle whistled and he watched as each of the Englands gladly accepted a cup of tea. A thought started to form in his mind. Sure, they were all different personalities, but they were still England, so they had to share certain tastes, right? Which meant that if he wanted them to get along and agree to become one person again, he needed something that they would all enjoy. Something like tea. America watched and thought and finally he came up with a solution.

He was going to need a boat. A big boat.

Chapter Text

When he finally decided to go to sleep, America wasn't surprised to find Britannia Angel waiting for him outside his bedroom door. The angel crossed his arms and gave America a stern look, although the overall effect was undermined by his skimpy toga, fluffy wings, and the Halo CD atop his head. It was hard to take him seriously when he looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume. (America made a note to find England a sexy angel costume for Halloween.)

"We need to talk," the angel said.

"Nah, I don't need 'the talk'," America replied with a grin. "I know how it all works."

"Well, er… that's the problem." The angel blushed and ducked his head. "I really wish you would stop doing this to me, love. Every time I see you kissing Britain or Iggy, it's like watching a much older nation take advantage of a sweet little boy."

"You don't have to protect me, England," America replied in an exasperated tone. "I'm a big boy now. I can handle myself." He brushed past the angel and slipped into the bedroom. Albion lay snoring under the covers, and he didn't seem to notice as America turned on the lights.

Britannia Angel followed him into the room. "I know," he said, his voice soft and weary. "You made that clear a long time ago."

"Because it's true!" America replied, lowering his volume when he remembered that Albion was still sleeping. He began to pull his pajamas out of the dresser. Someone, probably the angel, must have folded his clothing and put it away, because America was pretty sure he had left them in a pile on the floor. He pulled off his shirt in annoyance, tossed it to the floor, and turned around to face the angel. "See this?" He pointed to a scar on his tanned chest. "If I can survive a civil war, I think I damn well deserve the right to be treated as a full-fledged nation."

"I've never doubted your strength, dear," the angel said softly as he bent down and picked up America's shirt. "But can't you understand why I still want to protect you? No matter what else changes, you will always be the child who asked me to kiss it better when he scraped his knee."

As he saw the sad and loving look in the angel's eyes, America felt a guilty twinge from his conscience. Given their complicated history, it made sense that part of England would see him as the child he used to be. And instead of dealing with the issue calmly and rationally (like the adult he claimed to be), he had been deliberately rubbing those memories in the angel's face by going around and kissing the other Englands. Even though America didn't like the angel's logic, he wasn't really sure how to explain why it was wrong.

"Look, if I stop making out with the other Englands, will you turn them back into adults?"

The angel bit his lip and shook his head. "He stole my halo. That pirate isn't to be trusted."

America opened his mouth to issue a retort, but he stopped when he heard Albion moving around in the bed. It seemed that their conversation had finally woken up the youngest England.

"Is that you Mr. Fairy?" Albion mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up in bed.

Realizing that the child had mistaken Britannia Angel for one of his make-believe friends, America chuckled. He quickly finished pulling on his pajamas and crawled into bed. "Sssh, sweetie. Go back to sleep," he whispered as he pulled the boy into his arms.

"Let's finish our talk tomorrow," the angel suggested, smiling at America from the doorway. Haloed by the light in the hallway, the angel looked beautifully serene as he turned off the lights. America felt a lump forming in his throat. Unbidden, fond memories of the times when England had tucked him in and wished him goodnight rose in his mind.

"Good night, England," America called back. He wasn't sure if it was a dream or a memory, but that night, he swore he felt a warm kiss on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep.

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Preparing his surprise the next day proved remarkably easy. America left a note for Albion asking the boy for a big favor. Then he went into work like usual and placed a few phone calls to get everything in place. Being a nation had its perks. The only thing left to do was wait to see the look on Englands' faces when he showed them the surprise after work.

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"Oh my, how lovely," Mr. Kirkland murmured with genuine admiration.

Iggy snorted. "I've seen bigger," he said dismissively.

"Size isn't everything, but are we all going to fit?" Britain asked.

"Only one way to find out," the punk purred.

"Last one will be left ashore!" Captain Kirkland shouted gleefully as he raced forward, eager to claim the ship's wheel for himself. All but the angel followed closely behind. If there was one thing England loved as much as tea, it was his ships and sailing. And America had procured a lovely schooner for the entire weekend. He just hoped that living in tight quarters on the ship would help him convince the Englands that they were better together.

"Aren't you coming?" America asked Britannia Angel. His grin slowly faded as the angel continued to ignore him. The angel was giving him the cold shoulder, the cold wing, the cold halo, and basically the cold everything. America sighed. Asking Albion to return the pirate and punk to adult forms had felt like a stroke of genius at the time (after all, the angel wasn't the only England capable of doing magic), but he wished that the angel would stop giving him that hurt look of betrayal. "I couldn't just leave them as kids, you know."

America was so focused on the angel that he didn't notice Captain Kirkland sneaking up behind him until it was too late. He felt a hand caressing his ass and the next thing he knew the pirate was bending him backwards and plumbing the depths of his mouth like it held hidden treasure.

"Wow," America gasped when he came up for air. It was easy to tell which personality had all of England's (very impressive) kissing skills. Remembering that he was supposed to be convincing an unhappy angel to get on the ship, America guiltily glanced back to where Britannia Angel had been standing a moment earlier. He couldn't find a single feather.

The pirate smirked and whispered into America's ear, "Check the crow's nest."

America looked up and saw the glimmer of a halo. He grinned and let the pirate captain lead him to the ship. Maybe he wasn't off to the best start, but he was sure he could patch things up with Britannia Angel. And with any luck he'd have England back to himself by the end of the trip.

"Set the sails, lads! I've got me booty," the pirate called as soon as his boots touched the ship. He moved swiftly and easily, as surefooted as a cat.

Knowing that he would only get in the way, America joined the gentleman in the stern. They lounged on the schooner's comfortable padded benches and watched as Captain Kirkland barked orders to his crew. Iggy and the punk deftly untied ropes and rapidly unfurled sails, looking as happy as America had seen them in the past few days. Iggy wasn't even complaining about the lack of alcohol!

The ship picked up good speed as it left the harbor, smoothly cutting through the waves. America closed his eyes and enjoyed the salt breeze and warm evening air. He wasn't as much of a sailor as England, but he still enjoyed a nice trip out on the ocean. Especially if someone else was doing all of the work.

He cracked open one eye and grinned as he heard the pirate approach. "Any plans on where we're going, Cap'n?"

"I've got me sights set on Florida," the pirate replied, glancing down in a way that made his meaning clear.

America laughed. "We've only got the boat until Sunday. You're gonna need to pick something a little closer, sweetheart."

With two fluid steps forward, the pirate sank onto America's lap. He leaned back, pressing his lithe body against America's chest and turning his head until his hot breath lapped against America's ear. "Is this close enough?" he whispered.

America was pretty sure there was a reason he wasn't supposed to let the sinfully sexy captain snog him into oblivion, but it was kind of hard to remember at the moment.

"Ah-hem," the gentleman said, drawing America's attention back to all of the other Englands staring at him on the ship. America blinked and noticed Albion peeking up at him from the cabin below. Oh, right. That was the reason. He blushed and pushed the captain off his lap.

America climbed down into the ship's cabin and pulled a bottle of sunscreen from one of the bags he had loaded earlier. "You need to wear this when you're outside," he warned, taking the time to make sure that every pale inch of Albion's skin was covered in sunblock.

"Did you want him to be an adult so you could kiss him?" the boy asked as America finished spreading the lotion on his arms.

"No. I mean, sort of. I need them both to be adults again so I can turn you all back to normal."

"I'm ready to be me again," the child said wistfully.

"I am too, but I'm going to miss you, kiddo." America gave the boy a hug and then ruffled his hair. "England never acts like a child. Good to know you're in there somewhere, Albie."

"My name is Albion."

America chuckled at England's distaste for nicknames and grabbed the rest of the sunscreen. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go save the rest of you from sunburns."

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By the time America was done spreading sunscreen on the pirate and the punk, he was so red from blushing at their comments and touches that it looked like he was the one who had a sunburn. Of course he knew that England had a strong erotic streak, but wowzers, he had never realized how much England's gentlemanly manners kept his lust in check.

"Come here and let me do you," the punk offered with a wink.

America grabbed the ropes and pulled himself off the deck. "Sorry, still need to get the angel!" he called as he climbed. The rope ladder swayed with the swell and dip of the waves, moving more and more the higher he went. Although England made it look easy, America found himself breathing heavily by the time he reached the top. He gripped the mast tightly and used his strength to pull himself into the crow's nest, nearly landing on top of the angel.

The small wooden enclosure was meant to hold only one person, forcing them to squish together uncomfortably. The angel glared. America gave him a bright smile. "Hey, Sunshine! I brought sunscreen so you wouldn't burn."

Britannia Angel grudgingly took the bottle and, because England never forgot his manners, added a grumpy "Thank you."

"No prob! Need any help putting it on?"

The angel, pressed as far away from America as he could manage, shook his head.

"Okay." America tried to hide the hurt in his voice. He sighed. "Look, I was thinking about what you said last night, and I think I get it now. You sort of raised me, and you feel kind of creepy because you're attracted to me."

"I'm not attracted to you!" the angel cried, sounding scandalized.

America grinned. "Guess you won't mind putting on my lotion, huh?" He pulled off his shirt, lifting up his arms to make his muscles really pop.

The angel's eyes widened and he hesitated for a few seconds before he started to gently rub the sunscreen into America's chest, making all of his muscles glisten in the early evening light.

"Thanks, darlin'," America purred, enjoying the way the angel's fingers splayed across his chest when he added the pet name. "You know, I think you're a part of England that he represses whenever we get hot and heavy, which is why you faint when stuff gets too steamy."

"That's ridiculous," the angel replied. "Turn around so I can reach your back."

America complied and spent the next few minutes enjoying the view of the distant shore and teal sandbar as the angel lathered sunscreen onto his back. The pirate captain had taken them south to the Outer Banks, and America personally thought it was one of the most beautiful areas of his country. If he couldn't woo England back to normal against the backdrop of the Diamond Shoals, he couldn't do it anywhere.

"I didn't mean anything bad when I asked Albion to turn those two back into adults, you know. I just want them normal again so I can have my England back."

"I don't trust them."

America turned around to face the angel again. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with your sexy sides. I mean, yeah, they come on really strong, but it's not like they're humping random strangers. We're dating. It's healthy to want each other."

"I'm not like them… I don't…" Britannia Angel hiccupped between breaths. "It feels wrong."

"You're not wrong! You're perfect and wonderful," America insisted as he started to caress the angel's wings soothingly.

"I'm a pervert dating my former colony!"

"Hey, we're not stuck in the Seventeenth Century. Everything has changed since then, so why shouldn't we? Plus, if you could only date countries who were kids at the same time as you were, you'd be stuck with France or something."

"Don't say such rubbish!" the angel snapped.

America grinned, pleased to see the angel acting a little more like regular ol' England. "That's more like it! Are you still ashamed to say that you like me?"

"You are… very handsome," the angel cautiously admitted.

"Hell yeah!"

"And a bit vulgar."

"Sorry."

"But you do make a good point." The angel finally looked him in the eye. "I can hold my memories of you in my heart and still acknowledge that the child I loved has grown into a fine young man."

America smiled and slipped an arm around the angel's waist, pulling the flustered angel closer to his bare chest. "Great! Now that that's all settled, there's something I've been wanting to do since I first laid eyes on you." He leaned closer. "Can I kiss you?"

The angel licked his lips and nodded hesitantly. "You may."

It was probably the softest, sweetest kiss they had ever shared. The angel's lips were feather light and warm despite the cool ocean breeze. The angel leaned against his chest and America felt the weight in his arms grow heavier. After another moment of glorious, gentle sweetness, the angel's lips slipped away from his. America opened his eyes and glanced down at the angel's pale neck and closed eyelids. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be pleased or annoyed that one kiss had been enough to make the poor angel swoon.

Keeping a secure grip on the other nation, America looked down at the long distance from the crow's nest to the deck. He groaned. In hindsight, he admitted to himself, he really should have waited to kiss the angel until they were both back on the deck.

Chapter Text

America dropped the final foot to the deck and heaved a sigh of relief. Between the swaying of the ship and the weight on his shoulder, it had been a little touch-and-go carrying Britannia Angel down from the crow's nest, but he had made it without dropping the unconscious angel onto the deck or into the ocean. America called that a success.

"Do you require any assistance?" the gentleman asked, looking up from his book. "I've some experience dealing with swooning virgins."

"I'll bet you do." America grinned as he walked to the stern of the ship, where a steep staircase led to the cabins below. "They probably fainted when they saw your eyebrows," he teased.

"There's nothing wrong with my eyebrows! And in any event, I'm sure their tight corsets were the more likely culprit."

America remembered enough about sailing to know that it was easiest to climb down the steps backwards. He took a few steps down and winked at the gentleman. "I never said they fainted in fright. Maybe they were just overcome with how browdy-licious you are."

Mr. Kirkland's eyebrows twitched. "That isn't even a word."

Taking care not to knock the angel against the low ceiling, America focused on climbing down the narrow stairs. He grinned up at the gentleman when he reached the bottom. "You're the one who made the language. It's not my fault there isn't a word for your eyebrows."

"I can think of a few. Distinguished. Virile. Unique," the gentleman said, holding his head up high as he followed America down the stairs. He pushed open the door to the nearest cabin and held it for America, who gently lifted the angel off his shoulder and onto the narrow bed.

"Thanks, babe," he replied absentmindedly while he spent some time making sure the angel was resting comfortably on the bed, with his wings tucked neatly under his body and his toga pulled down to cover his thighs. He gave the angel's soft hair one last caress, and then turned back to face the gentleman, returning to the earlier topic of England's eyebrows. "But those don't describe how hot your eyebrows are, so I had to make some up."

Mr. Kirkland shook his head and gave America a bemused smile. "I can't decide if your defense of your butchery of the English language is romantic or moronic."

"Why not both?" America asked with a grin as he closed the cabin door behind him. The poor angel had been through an emotional rollercoaster, he deserved to rest undisturbed. "Speaking of which, I've got a surprise for you."

"Oh, dear."

"Nah, relax. You'll like this." America walked into the ship's small dining area and grabbed his phone out of his bag. He pulled up his list of recent texts with the Queen of England (marked as "Q of Iggy" in his phone), and showed them to Mr. Kirkland.

"You've been texting with Her Majesty?" The gentleman's eyebrows rose higher and higher as he read through the conversation. "My goodness."

America chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm pretty sure she was joking when she threatened to personally burn down the White House if I hurt you."

"You shouldn't underestimate ol' Bess."

"That's not the important part though. Keep going!"

The gentleman's eyes softened as he reached the end of the conversation. "'Although there are many reasons I feel I should discourage this relationship," he read aloud, "I cannot deny the smile on my sweet England's face. For what it is worth, you have my blessing to court my country.' That was… very thoughtful of you, Alfred."

"She probably agreed because I sent her mums."

"Pardon?"

"You know, mums for the Queen Mum."

Mr. Kirkland sighed and planted his forehead in his hands. "The Queen Mum is the mother of the king or queen," he patiently explained. "Elizabeth the Second is simply the Queen."

America wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Man, this royalty stuff is hard." He suddenly grinned. "Good thing I have you around to explain it all."

"There are plenty of books that would help you achieve the same goal."

"Yeah, but I'd rather have you."

"Oh." The gentleman blushed at the silly, romantic blandishment. "Is that what I am to you? A walking, talking book to save you the effort of—"

The rest of his statement was cut off by America's lips. America had never been very good with words, so he hoped that his actions could express the way he felt. They kissed in the narrow hallway, swaying back and forth with the gentle motion of the ocean. America smiled as they finished and gently cupped the gentleman's cheek. "You feeling okay? Not light-headed or anything?" he asked, worried that the angel fiasco might repeat itself. At least this time they were already at the bottom of the boat.

The gentleman gave him an incredulous stare. "I'm not going to faint like a Victorian heroine. Honestly, I think you've been reading too many penny dreadfuls."

"Those were the days, weren't they?" America replied nostalgically, remembering the dime novels that were popular at the end of the 1800s. Of course, now he had comic books instead, but he still loved his old pulp fiction.

"Careful, lad, or you'll turn into an old man too," Mr. Kirkland warned with a smile.

"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad," America mused, starting to warm up to the idea of acting like an old married couple. "We could sit on a porch swing and hold hands. You'd have your tea and I'd have my pumpkin-spiced coffee and we could cuddle together for warmth as we admire the autumn leaves."

"I… I believe I'm free in October," the gentleman managed to reply.

"Great! It's a date!" The romantic mood was cut short as America's stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he had burnt a lot of energy carrying the angel down from the crow's nest. He gave the gentleman an embarrassed smile. "So… you hungry?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask what you packed for dinner."

"See for yourself!" America grinned and opened up several bags in the galley to show off his collection of pre-packaged McDonald's food. He had enough for the entire trip. And it was junk food. All of it.

The gentleman stared in horror. "Gracious sakes, I think I might faint."

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America heated up plenty of hamburgers, fries, and chicken nuggets and carried it all to the deck without any help from the gentleman, who refused to so much as touch what he referred to as 'artery-clogging rubbish'. He even sniffed disdainfully at the salads, which America thought was unfair. Covered in salad dressing and cheese, McDonald's salads were actually pretty tasty.

The other Englands weren't so picky about the food. They eagerly gobbled the junk food as they sat around the same table at the stern of the ship. Iggy, however, was less than pleased to discover that their sailing trip would be a dry voyage.

"What do you mean you didn't bring any alcohol?" he demanded. "No liquor? No beer? Not even wine coolers?"

"It's hardly sailing without me rum," the pirate agreed from his position at the wheel. "That water is probably filled with nasty beasties," he said, eyeing the water bottles suspiciously.

"Hey, don't hate on my bottled water!" America protested. "I love this stuff."

"And if you wanted to be historically accurate, we would need some lime juice as well," Britain noted reasonably as he ate another fry.

"We could use it to make mojitos," Iggy eagerly suggested.

"No, no alcohol." America turned to face Iggy and gave him a concerned look. "I know you like getting wasted. And yeah, it is fun to see you dance on tables and belt out bar songs. But I can't let you have more alcohol. It's bad for you."

"Yes, I can see you care very much about our health," the gentleman deadpanned. His arch tone and the withering look he gave the junk food was lost on America.

"Yep! I even got diet coke," America said happily.

"Water, water, every where," Iggy muttered. "Nor any drop to drink."

"Seriously, dude, I brought plenty to drink!" America proved it by handing Iggy a plastic gallon of sweet iced tea. It was cold to the touch and the syrupy liquid poured thickly into Iggy's cup. Iggy scowled in disgust after taking a small sip. Before America could react, the unwillingly sober Englishman tossed the container of sugary liquid into the ocean.

"No!" America cried as he made a desperate grab for his precious sweet tea. He would have even jumped into the ocean after it if Britain hadn't held him back.

"It's not worth it!" the soldier shouted, grabbing America around his middle and barely managing to keep the struggling American in the boat. Iggy and the punk grabbed one arm each and pulled America back onto the seat.

The American stared forlornly into the ocean. "Why?" he asked. "Why?"

"Oh, I couldn't let you have more sugar," Iggy said with a smirk. "It's bad for you."

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The ship came within sight of the coast as the sun began to set, giving them a magnificent view of bright oranges and pinks lighting the sky above a dark strip of land. America normally loved his vibrant sunsets, taking pride in the natural beauty of his land, but he was too busy sulking to enjoy the gorgeous colors. He'd been making progress with the Englands, except that the alcohol-loving personalities had reacted poorly to the lack of alcohol. He knew Iggy would be upset. But he honestly hadn't been expecting the mutiny.

The pirate was the first one to suggest it. "To hell with this lads, we'll board the next ship we see and steal thar alcohol!"

America had protested, of course. And before he knew it, he was tied to the mast in a maze of knots so complicated even he couldn't undo it. He had pulled and tugged, giving himself several slivers in the process, but he was pretty sure that untying the knots with his brute strength would mean breaking the wooden mast. America huffed in annoyance. Bringing along the pirate had not been his smartest plan. And this experience was nowhere near as much fun as the last time he had let England tie him up.

The sun sank below the horizon as the punk, pirate, and soon-to-be-drunk planned to plunder some poor unsuspecting ship. Britain had been below decks when they staged their mutiny, and America feared that his steadfast ally was tied up in the belly of the ship. His hopes rested on a child, an angel, and a stodgy gentleman.

"Psst. Come on, help me untie these ropes," America whispered, trying to catch Mr. Kirkland's attention. The Englishman just looked up from his book and shook his head.

"First, I don't engage in manual labor," he said as he flipped to the next page. "Second, they promised me brandy. And third, you gave a pirate a ship," he noted archly. "This development cannot possibly come as a surprise."

America opened his mouth and closed it. He had to admit that Mr. Kirkland was right. He had been so focused on the idea of bringing the Englands together with a shared love of sailing that he had forgotten (1) the pirate was dangerous and (2) the Englands also shared a dangerous love of alcohol. Still, at least he could admit that he was wrong in a way that would irritate the Englishman.

"Touché," he replied.

Chapter Text

From his position tied to the center mast, America had a pretty good view of the three Englands as they deftly and gracefully brought the ship closer to land. Even if he didn't understand the purpose of all the ropes and pulleys, he could still see the level of skill required to sail the ship with just three people. He probably would have been in a better mood to appreciate it if he wasn't getting slivers in his arms.

"Are we there yet?" America whined.

From behind the ship's wheel, the captain arched a thick eyebrow. "Have ye changed your mind about me piracy then?" he asked with a wicked grin.

"Nah, I'm just bored."

"If you're really board we could make you walk the plank," the punk suggested, laughing as he tied a rope and dashed from one side of the ship to the other.

"I think that's a little uncalled for," the gentleman interrupted.

"Yeah! I'd rather stay in the boat."

"No, not that. I was referring to his effort to be a little punk."

The punk laughed, Iggy sighed, and America wrinkled his forehead in confusion. He didn't understand what was going on, so he resorted to his tried-and-true tactic for getting England's attention: whining. "Are we there yet?" he complained.

"No," Iggy replied.

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No!"

America whistled cheerfully and grinned. He took a deep breath, and then shouted at his top volume: "Are we there yet, Artie are we there yet, Artie Artie Artie Artie Artie are we there yet?"

"For the last bleeding time, no!" Iggy yelled over the sound of the waves lapping against the side of the ship. "We will be 'there' when there is a drink in my hand. Until then, stop bloody asking!"

"Fine." America paused. "How about now? Are we there yet?"

"Argh!" Iggy screamed. "Shut up!"

"Arrrgh," the pirate agreed.

"You could just gag him," the punk suggested.

"Oh, England, I didn't know that was one of your kinks."

"Don't be vulgar!" Mr. Kirkland harrumphed. "I don't have a 'kink'."

The punk smirked. He sashayed over to the mast and dangled a piece of cloth in America's face. "He's right. I don't have a kink. I have all the kinks."

America was too dazed to say anything as the punk tied the gag into place. He knew that he was supposed to be annoyed with the Englands for tying him up and threatening to steal rum, but it was really hard to hold on to his irritation when the punk gave him a seductive smile. "Mmm hm mhh mh?" he mumbled into the cloth.

"Not yet," the pirate purred. "I'll let you know."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

As dusk fell, the ship pulled into a sheltered cove. Squinting his eyes to distinguish the dark land from the navy skies, America could tell that it was a small bay, well-protected from the high ocean waves. For a moment, he hoped that the pirate had decided to give up for the night, since they hadn't seen any other ships. His hopes were dashed, however, as he heard the sound of music and people laughing. A cluster of lights in the center of the bay showed a group of ships gathered to party in the warm evening air.

America began to worry for his people. He didn't understand why the boats were so close together, but it was easy to see that Captain Kirkland had found his targets.

"Oh, don't look so tragic," the punk teased. "We're not going to steal from them, we're just planning to join the party."

"Mmm?"

"It's a floating party. People tie their ships together and walk from one to another as music plays and liquor flows. I explained the concept to Captain Kirkland and he quite liked the idea. Said that it reminds him of Nassau."

"Mmm mh mm mmh?" America asked, giving the punk his best puppy-dog eyes. If the Englands were going to be getting drunk on a floating convoy, he wanted to be there to save them from any alcohol-related mishaps.

The punk chuckled and shook his head. "Sorry, sweetheart. A wet blanket isn't much fun when you want to wet your whistle."

"Mmh! Mmhhh!" America's muffled shouts didn't stop the Englands from tying their ship to the end of the line and eagerly boarding the first of the party boats. Torn between anger and worry, he tried to squirm out of the ropes as he watched them go.

After a few fruitless minutes of struggling, America sighed and closed his eyes. He tried not to think of all the ways the three Englands could get into trouble. Once England started drinking, he usually didn't stop until he was flat on his arse and shouting insults he wouldn't dream of saying while sober. That was usually when the bartender called America to come pick him up, but who was going to call America now?

America's eyes snapped open as he heard someone jump onto the ship. He glanced over and saw the punk returning with two drinks in his hand. The green-haired man gave one of the cups to the gentleman, who swirled the liquid and sniffed it carefully.

"I couldn't find brandy, but I did find port," the punk explained.

Mr. Kirkland sighed. "Any port in a storm, I suppose."

"Hah! You're not so bad, old chap."

They clinked the cups together, and both took a sip.

"Mmmh! Mmh mm mhmm!" America complained.

"Oh? Did you want some too?" The punk grinned and gave America a jaunty wave as he hopped back onto the floating party. "Let me see what I can find."

America groaned and let the top of his head thunk against the mast. That wasn't what he wanted at all! He felt helpless and hopeless, and not at all hero-like. He had wanted to return England to normal, but at the moment he would settle for rescuing England from himself. He just didn't know how to get started. But as he looked up, he noticed a slight movement in the rigging above his head. The dark shape came closer. Behind his gag, America grinned in recognition. After everything that had gone wrong, he was grateful for Albion's hiding and climbing skills.

"I've been waiting for them to leave," the child explained as he pulled out a dagger and swiftly freed America from his bonds and gag.

"Thanks, kiddo," America replied and gratefully stretched his tense muscles. "Could you do me one more favor? Go down and make sure that Angel and Britain are okay."

As the boy nodded and scampered down the stairs, America felt a huge sense of relief. Now he could focus on rescuing the other Englands from their bad drinking habits. With one last glance at the gentleman, who seemed content to ignore America's escape now that he had his port, he stepped onto the first boat and began his effort to track down the three party-loving Englands.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

America immediately found himself surrounded by loud music and dancing people. He didn't understand how they could drink and sway to the music as waves rocked the boat. He was having enough trouble walking from one boat to another without tripping over his feet. He scanned the crowd, desperately looking for a pirate hat, green hair, or a ranting, drunk Englishman. He didn't find a single one.

"Hey, have you seen any cute Brits lately?" he asked a cluster of partygoers.

They shook their heads. "I wish," one of the women replied.

The next two ships also proved to be tragically Brit-less, although someone remembered seeing a person in a pirate hat. Hoping it was Captain Kirkland, America picked up his pace and eagerly crossed over to the next ship. Amidst the laughter and music, he heard a shriek and a splashing noise that chilled him to the bone. Was that...?

"Help! Man overboard!" a voice yelled.

America didn't even think to worry about Texas as he raced to the edge of the ship and dived into the dark water. With powerful strokes, he quickly reached the flailing blond man and managed to lift his head above water. He felt a sense of relief as he heard the other man gasp for breath. "You okay, Arthur?" he asked desperately.

Before the man could respond, a loud splash drew America's attention to the side, and he saw that someone had tossed him a life preserver. He grabbed the floating ring and let the people on the ship pull them in. It wasn't until they were safely on the boat that America took another look at the man who went overboard and realized his mistake. The man was slim, blond, and drunk, but he wasn't England.

"My god, thank you so much!" one of the man's friends gushed, shaking America's hand as another friend wrapped the wet drunk into a blanket.

"You're welcome," America replied, gratefully accepting the praise and a towel. He cleaned his glasses and gave everyone a big grin. "That's what heroes are for."

He heard a chuckle from behind his back, and turned around to find pirate England smirking at him. The pirate curled up the rope that was attached to the life preserver and hung both in their proper spot. "Come now, lad. No thanks for me?"

America felt a sense of relief at finding the pirate, but he still narrowed his eyes. "I could only help that guy because Albion untied me from the mast. No thanks to you."

The captain shrugged. "Didn't want ye ruining me fun."

"That could have been you in the water!"

"Foolish lad. I've spent half me life four sheets to the wind and never slipped."

"Well excuse me for worrying," America snapped. Annoyed with the pirate, he turned on his heels and stiffly walked onto to the last ship in the floating convoy. Still dripping, he knew as soon as he set foot on the deck that he had found the one that would appeal to the punk. The music was filled with angry guitars and the people on this ship had plenty of tattoos and piercings. He even spotted a rainbow Mohawk. Yep, this was definitely punk England's type of crowd.

People kept glancing at America's wet clothes as he pushed his way through the crowd, but he ignored their curious stares. All he wanted to find was a messy head of dyed green hair. He finally spotted the punk in the middle of the deck, which had been turned into an impromptu dance floor.

Green eyes flickered merrily, and America found himself dragged into a group of dancers. He much preferred country and square dancing, but he had to admit that England was mesmerizing when he let loose on the dance floor, his head banging to the beat.

"When I called you a wet blanket, I didn't mean you to take it literally," the punk teased, his warm breath tickling America's ear.

"Someone was drowning," America grumbled in reply. As long as one England was still unaccounted for, he wasn't in the mood for flirting. "Where's Iggy?"

"He went to find you, actually. I think he had a rant prepared."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

With the two Englands in tow, America made his way back across the ships as fast as he could. On the final ship, he noticed a woman giving him a thumbs-up sign. "Found your cute Brits, I see. And they're twins!"

The punk hid a smirk behind his hand. "I wonder where that love affair with my lovely country comes from..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," America lied as he finally crossed over to their own ship. A wave of relief flooded his body as soon as he spotted Iggy. And sure enough, the Englishman was holding a beer bottle and ranting at the mast.

"Stupid America! You can't run away forever," he groused.

"Iggy? You know that pole isn't me, right? How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," Iggy replied as he turned to scowl at America. "Did you think that I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't realize?"

"Huh?"

"I had time to think when I stopped drinking. And I was a fool for not seeing it earlier."

America frowned. "See what?"

"There are seven of us!" the drunkard shouted.

"Uh... yeah?"

"Don't play the dunce, America," the punk interjected. "You were the one who explained how the separator machine works. Evidently you find everything about me annoying except my taste in music."

America stood frozen to the spot as the accusation echoed in his head. He whipped his head around, trying to look at all of the Englands. "You all think this?" he demanded.

"Aye, lad."

The gentleman nodded. "It's elementary, my dear Mr. Jones."

"You think I don't love every single bit of you?" America asked, his voice barely louder than the painful clenching of his heart. "Well, you're wrong, Arthur! And if you had asked me, I could have told you why. It's cuz Tony was the one who pushed you in."

America stomped back to the railing and cut the ropes that tied their ship to the rest of the floating party. The sound of the music dimmed as the boat drifted away from the others, the tide carrying it deeper into the bay. Silence reigned over the ship.

"We're the personality traits that the alien finds annoying," the gentleman finally said, his voice thick with chagrin.

"I can't believe it likes punk rock."

"Oh, Alfred." Iggy stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around the wet American. "I'm sorry. Please don't cry."

America pulled the nation against his chest and accepted the warmth of the hug. Despite Iggy's proximity, he couldn't smell any alcohol on his breath. He glanced down at the bottle in Iggy's hand and saw that it wasn't open. "You're not actually drunk, are you?"

Iggy shook his head. "I was tempted... alcohol is so good at helping me forget my problems. But it never helps me solve them."

"I... thank you." America smiled and squeezed Iggy tightly. Moments later, he found himself surrounded by more Englands as Britain, Albion, and the angel arrived to 'rescue' him from the pirate's mutiny. Although it was a little late, America appreciated the effort. He let Britannia Angel lead him below decks to change into dry clothes. It felt good to curl his fingers around a cup of cocoa as the angel doted on him.

America stared into his drink and felt a renewed sense of confidence. It had been a rough day, but now he understood why some of the Englands seemed angry and distant. And it gave him hope that he was close to returning his lover to normal. "I'm going to fix this," he promised.

The angel smiled. "I know. I have faith in you."

Chapter Text

The sun was already high above the horizon by the time America rolled out of bed and climbed up to the deck with a McMuffin wedged in his mouth. Sure, he didn't look as impressive as the pirates who carried weapons with their teeth, but at least the breakfast sandwich was way more delicious than an iron dagger.

All seven Englands were up on the deck and for once, miracle of miracles, they didn't seem to be fighting. Captain Kirkland stood behind the ship's wheel, looking about as happy as a ruthless marauder could as he shouted sailing directions to Albion and Iggy. America took a moment to appreciate the way that Iggy gracefully climbed across the rigging, and then another moment to admire Iggy's long legs and how cute his butt looked as it stuck out into the air. It was even more fun to imagine what Iggy would look like if he were still wearing his drunken waiter outfit.

(Of course, America was grateful that Iggy had cut down on the drinking, but he missed drunken England's habit of shamelessly parading around in a few stitches of clothing. The lack of clothes always more than compensated America for the hassle of carrying England home from the nearest dive bar.)

Voices raised in question pulled America's attention away from Iggy's ass. He turned around to look at the angel, who was also a lovely sight with his toga fluttering gently in the breeze. "Hmm?" America asked.

"I said, that's not a very healthy breakfast," Britannia Angel tsked.

"Not healthy, but certainly delicious. Look at the way he's drooling!" the punk added with a knowing smirk on his face.

"Mmm mh," America mumbled, finishing his sandwich as he wedged himself between Britain and Mr. Kirkland. The bench seats and table at the stern of the boat were cleverly arranged, allowing the table to be lowered and folded out to create another bed. It wouldn't be useful during inclement weather, but in the summer it was a marvelous place to sleep, cooled by ocean breezes.

America leaned back and turned his face toward the sky. With the scent of the salty sea in his nostrils and the warm morning sun beating down on him, he could understand England's undying love for the sea. It wasn't the same feeling of complete freedom America enjoyed in the air, but it was awfully close.

His reverie was broken by a sharp jab from the gentleman's elbow. "America, are you listening? I said that we have a problem."

"Yeah?"

"We're almost out of tea."

"We could plunder more," the pirate suggested playfully.

"No! No more plundering!" America and the angel cried at the same time.

"Piracy won't be necessary," Britain interjected. "There's plenty of tea for one person."

America blinked. "You mean...?"

The punk crossed the distance between them and crawled into America's lap. He smiled and wrapped his arms around America's neck. "You've gotten around, haven't you?" he asked playfully, using his finger to lift up America's chin. Before the American could respond, he felt warm lips cover his mouth, kissing him sensuously. A supple tongue slipped between his parted lips, gentle and hungry and perfect.

America slipped his hands behind the Englishman's back, caressing the punk's warm skin as he pulled the lithe body closer. Of all the Englands, this one kissed the most like the real England—a perfect blend of eager lust and tender yearning.

When he opened his eyes, America was disappointed to see that the Englishman in his lap still had green hair and they still had an audience. The angel had actually covered his eyes with his hands, while the others looked less than pleased.

"All that was required was a little peck, not a bloody open-mouth French kiss!" the gentleman complained as he crossed his arms.

America frowned. "That's weird. I've kissed you all now, so that should've worked."

"Perhaps we need to try again," the punk suggested. He leaned in for another kiss. It was equally wonderful, and just as ineffective at returning England to his normal self.

Captain Kirkland smirked at the confused Englands from his position behind the ship's wheel. He pointed to the DVD atop the angel's head. "Have ye forgotten already, lad?"

Despite the warm weather, America felt a chill run down his spine. He couldn't return England to normal until he had the angel's halo back! He climbed to his feet and gave the pirate captain a pleading look as he walked closer. "Come on, Arthur, I know you're in there somewhere. Don't you want to be yourself again?"

The pirate laughed. "Like them? I think not. Consider your machine's potential. It'd be a shame to waste it."

America tilted his head to the side. "I don't understand."

"Why return to being pathetic ol' England when I could ditch the fearful child and feeble drunk, and throw off the yoke of the fainting angel and the fussy Mr. Prig?" he replied, his eyes cold as he listed England's weakest personality traits.

The gentleman huffed and lifted his head. "Excuse you. The British Empire was at its height during Queen Victoria's reign."

"No!" America shouted. "I'm not going to let you cut England up into pieces. Why even ask me to pick a favorite if this was your plan all along?"

The pirate shrugged. "I'm not heartless. I'd let you keep your favorite part."

"To hell with you," America growled. "I would rather break that machine into pieces than let you change England like that."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"Yeah, except there's one of you, and seven of us. Right, guys?" America asked as he turned around to look at the other Englands. They were being unusually quiescent, which wasn't a way he would normally describe his feisty boyfriend. (In fact, it wasn't an word he used much at all, but dating England did tend to boost one's vocabulary.) "Guys?"

The Englands shared a look, and it was Britain who finally spoke. "I know myself a little better than you do, America. He doesn't mean it. He's merely testing you."

"Oh." America turned back to look at the smirking pirate. "You're an asshole, you know. But I passed, right? So give me back the halo."

The pirate laughed. "When the time is right. Ye promised me three days of sailing, lad. Don't think to cut it short!"

"I think I know who my least favorite England is," America muttered under his breath, earning a snort of laughter from Captain Kirkland.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Somewhat mollified by the pirate's promise, America spent the rest of the day having fun with the Englands. He lost badly at a game of Cribbage, but won Texas Hold'em. His request for strip poker was pointedly rebuffed. He read fairy tales to Albion before nap time, imitated the scene from Titanic at the bow of the ship with Iggy, and then watched the sunset with Britannia Angel from the crow's nest. And this time he didn't have to carry the angel down like a sack of flour!

Evening found them setting anchor in another placid bay. America lounged in a hammock and watched as the stars began to appear in the dusky sky. The captain had chosen a dark inlet, giving them a wonderful view of the bright constellations. He probably wanted a good view for navigation purposes, but America preferred to admire the starry sky and dream about distant worlds. Some day he would fund NASA properly and travel to the edge of the universe.

As if they were inspired by the stars above, fireflies flickered in the distance, giving the bay a magical glow. Albion gasped in excitement when he spotted the fireflies, and he raced to the edge of the ship's railing. America grinned at the boy's enthusiasm.

"Look! Look!" the child cried, pointing at the pinpricks of light. His excitement soon gathered a crowd of Englands as the fireflies surrounded the ship. "Hello, bright one," the boy said politely to a firefly that approached his hand.

"They're lovely," the angel murmured. "A pity so few can see them."

"At least they've found a way to shine into the mundane world," Mr. Kirkland added, doffing his hat.

The Englands spent some time complimenting and cooing over the fireflies, which made America proud. Darn right, his country had the best bioluminescent insects! It was a little strange how the Englishmen talked to them, but England did lots of inexplicable things, like color-coordinating his socks and building Stonehenge, so talking to fireflies wasn't really that strange by comparison.

When Albion started to yawn, the fireflies began to leave. The boy waved goodbye to all of them, giving each a silly name like Glimmer or Starshine. America smiled fondly and tucked the boy into bed before returning to star-gazing.

People who said that America had the attention span of a dog distracted by a squirrel were generally correct, especially when they were talking about boring activities like world meetings and paperwork. But America could be plenty patient for important things, like playing video games and waiting for his boyfriend's split personalities to finally merge. He had spent decades pining for England; he didn't mind waiting a little longer.

America sat down next to the pirate as he compared his map to the stars. "You know, the ship has a GPS system," he suggested.

"I prefer my method."

The answer didn't surprise America, who just smiled fondly and shook his head. England could be good with technology, like his early use of Twitter, but he also tried to keep the old methods alive. It came in handy when they travelled to places without cell service. "You don't like having to rely on other people, do you?"

"It's not people that concern me."

America could hear the unspoken words―England preferred isolation because he didn't want to rely on other nations. He had grown up in a time of cruel and shifting alliances, where a friend could easily become a blood-sworn enemy. And the nation that had personally hurt him most was now beside him. America sighed. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, his relationship with England always seemed to revolve around his declaration of independence. "You can't spend your whole life in isolation just because things might change for the worse," he protested.

The pirate arched an eyebrow. "Who says I have?"

"But... I thought..."

The smirk seemed gentler this time. "Remember what I told ye in Williamsburg: the Confederacy would've had its own avatar if t'were destined to be a nation."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I knew that when I met ye."

"You knew that having a personification meant that we were destined to become our own nation..." America trailed off as understanding hit him like a punch to the gut. England had known as soon as he met little America that the boy would one day become his own nation. But he had nonetheless decided to care for the little boy like a brother. He had loved and lost, instead of never loving at all. "Oh."

"Everyone who loves the sea should expect storms."

"Wait, am I the sea in this metaphor? Cuz I always thought of you as more―" America's question was cut short as Captain Kirkland stole a kiss from his lips.

"Off with ye," the pirate said when they finished, pushing America away from the map. "Lest I forgot to plot the course for tomorrow."

Recognizing a potential threat when he heard one (pirates were known for stealing ships, after all), America returned to his hammock and his star-gazing. But it felt lonely without England by his side. Something in his expression must have shown his loneliness, because he soon heard footsteps approaching.

"Mind if I join you?" a sultry voice purred.

America grinned and pulled the green-haired nation into his hammock. It took a moment to readjust to a more comfortable position, until they finally ended up cradled together with their heads tilted toward the sky. As he wrapped his arm around this England, he realized a slight problem. "You know, I never gave you a proper name."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"I was thinking Anarchy in the UK. UK for short!"

The punk groaned. "Excellent song, terrible name."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember your lecture. Guess I should call you England."

"Why?"

"Well, you're sort of the real England. The one all of the others are separated from."

"More like the small sliver of personality that doesn't irritate your alien friend."

"Yeah..." America rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. "Sorry about that. I'm sure Tony just wanted to help."

The U.K. snorted. "Somehow I doubt that."

America opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again, deciding that he didn't want to start an argument when he was so close to getting his England back. He settled for wrapping his arms around this England and nuzzling his green hair. "Babe, tell me if something's bothering you. I could've cleared up that whole mess about why there were so many of you way sooner."

"I should be better about communication? Excuse me, you're the one who thought a separator machine was a good way to win my heart."

"Well it worked, didn't it?" America grinned. His expression softened as the two intertwined their fingers. Even as a punk, England was still a softie at heart. "Nah, I hear ya. I'll try to be better."

"I'll try too, though I doubt I'll ever be as demonstrative as you." The UK paused, and after a moment's thought added, "Unless alcohol is involved."

"No kidding." America chuckled and carded his fingers through the punk's messy locks. "You know. I spent decades thinking you were touchy-feely with everyone when you got drunk. I thought if I didn't get there in time, you'd go home with Portugal or somebody."

"Just you. Always you."

"I wish―"

The punk pressed his finger against America's lips to quiet his regrets. "What's past is past, love. Focus on the present."

"And the future."

"Of course."

They lapsed into comfortable silence, watching the stars promenade across the heavens. America had seen the stars hundreds of thousands of times, in thousands of places, but he never tired of their eternal beauty and endless mysteries. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a shooting star. He closed his eyes and made a wish with all his heart. When sleep finally claimed them both, America had his arms wrapped around his lover and a smile on his face.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

America woke up the next morning with blond hair sticking in his mouth. He felt stiff and tired. Sleeping in a hammock had probably not been his best idea. He really didn't know how sailors managed it. England, who had much more experience with hammocks and the gentle rocking of the waves, was still sleeping like a baby. A thought nagged at the back of America's mind, but he pushed it aside.

He tried to stretch his shoulder muscles without waking up England. England usually woke up much earlier, so America rarely had a chance to admire how cute he looked when he was sleeping, especially the thin line of drool escaping his mouth.

The ship seemed awfully quiet and America wondered whether all of the other Englands were still sleeping below deck.

Wait.

Blond hair?

"England, you're back!" America cried, waking up the other nation.

"Mwuh?" England asked as his eyes fluttered open.

"You're back! You're back! You're back!" America shouted giddily, punctuating each exclamation with a kiss. He overbalanced them both in his enthusiasm and they landed with a heavy thump on the deck. Despite the rough landing, he grinned up at England so hard it felt like his face would split in two. "Good morning, sunshine," he added, with another kiss. "God, I missed you so much."

"I know." England smiled while he rubbed his temples. "I have an uncomfortable number of memories stuffing my head at the moment."

"How are you back? What happened with the halo?" America asked curiously.

"Captain Kirkland decided he wanted to give it back on his own terms."

"Huh." America stared off into the distance. There were parts of England he would probably never understand.

England sighed and rubbed his head. "Unfortunately, I seem to recall that we're out of tea."

"True. But I can help you forget about the tea, and help you remember the state advertising slogan instead."

"Oh?"

"Yep." America winked. "Virginia is for lovers."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

With a late start that day and only two people sailing the ship, they didn't make it back by the end of the weekend. Somehow, neither minded. Their only true deadline was England's flight, and America was quite happy to push it out of his mind for as long as possible. Work could wait. He had everything he wanted on one ship.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

"Sure you don't want me to come in with you?" America asked as he unloaded England's suitcase onto the curb. "I don't mind, honest."

The Englishman shook his head. "No, let's make it short and sweet. I hate goodbyes."

"I'm gonna miss you," America whispered, grabbing England into a tight bear hug. He buried his nose against England's sweater and breathed deeply, hoping to memorize the scent. And when he kissed England, he tried to commit the taste to memory.

"Don't fret, love. I'll call," England promised as he grabbed the handle of his suitcase and made his way to the automatic doors.

"And text me!" America called out.

"I will," came England's faint reply as the doors closed behind him.

America climbed back into his truck and stared at his phone. England had always been good about calling him at least once a week, even when they were just allies. But now he wasn't sure that daily calls would be enough to make up for the distance between them. Lost in thought, he was surprised when the phone buzzed on his drive back and the name Iggy flashed across the screen. The phone didn't have a chance to ring again before America had it pressed against his ear. "England! Everything okay?" he asked.

"Aside from the fact that I'm only a few kilometers away from you and already missing you terribly, yes."

"I could've come with you," America said as he smiled into the receiver. For reasons he could never understand, England was always more romantic over the telephone.

"That would have only made it harder to leave."

"Maybe I should've split us into pieces again so you could keep one with you and I could keep one with me."

"I appreciate the sentiment, love, but I already keep a piece of you with me."

America sat up straighter. "What?"

"Your heart. I carry it in my heart."

"Oh." America felt a warmth in his chest, like it was being cradled by loving hands. "I love you, Arthur," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Love you too, Alfred."

When England finally had to board his trans-Atlantic flight, America didn't mind hanging up the call. Somehow, the distance between them didn't seem so important anymore. No matter the miles or the time apart, they shared a connection that was unbreakable, a future that was unlimited, and two hearts that were indivisible.

Chapter Text

Quick reminder of the character list:

Americas
Freddie – colony
Al – cowboy
America – hero
US – teen rebel

Englands
Albion – child
Britain – soldier
Britannia Angel – angel
Captain Kirkland – pirate
Iggy – drunkard
Mr. Kirkland – gentleman
UK – punk

The two handsome blonds waiting near the baggage claim blended into the crowd amidst the hustle and bustle of the busy airport. Both looked like college students, although one was dressed for spring break and the other seemed ready for a summer internship. The one in jeans bounced and fidgeted; the other sedately watched the bags move past on the conveyer belt. Someone walking by might have confused them for brothers, although both would have vehemently denied it.

"Finally!" America cried as he plucked England's heavy luggage from the carousel. It was big enough for a nice, long vacation—exactly what they both had been waiting for.

"I am quite capable of carrying my own bag," England replied, not that he tried very hard to reclaim his suitcase. Instead he reached for America's hand as they made their way through the airport crowds.

"Hey, I wanted to scoop you up and carry you through the airport. I'm comprising!"

"And here I thought you didn't know the meaning of the word," England teased.

"I do now." America grinned. "Thanks, Obama."

When they reached the bright red pickup in the short-term parking lot, America continued his streak of chivalry by opening the passenger door for England, who couldn't help but blink in surprise. He buckled himself in and watched in confusion as America set the suitcase into the backseat instead of tossing it into the bed of the pickup truck.

Once they were in the semi-privacy of the car, America leaned over for a tender kiss. England sank into the embrace and noticed an unexpected level of chaste sweetness. The feeling warmed his heart, even though it wasn't quite the level of ardor he was expecting after several months apart. He murmured a vague protest as America pulled away.

"Sorry, gorgeous. Don't wanna repeat the thing with the parking attendant," America said with a laugh as he turned on the ignition and maneuvered his way out of the garage.

"I suppose," England admitted grudgingly. "You know... you're being quite the gentleman today. I wonder what you're after."

America gave him an innocent look. "Do I need an ulterior motive to be a good boyfriend?"

"Hmm..." England narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Between the chaste kiss and the unexpected chivalry, he was starting to sense something off about America.

They drove in silence as America followed the signs to the interstate. Once he had merged onto the busy road he fiddled with the radio and happily settled back into his seat while golden oldies filled the car. The Virginia countryside meandered past, a charming counterpoint to the endless line of cars and trucks ahead of them.

But England wasn't paying attention to the green forests. His eyes flickered between America and the speedometer and his expression grew increasingly suspicious. In all the years he had known America, England had never seen the other nation drive at the speed limit for such a long time. There was only one conclusion. He sighed and crossed his arms. "You're a terrible liar."

"What? But I am a good boyfriend—"

"—not that." England frowned and switched off the music. "You're not America. At least, you're not all of America.

The other nation's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Even as he kept his gaze on the road ahead of him, he sucked in a breath and flushed guiltily. "What gave me away?"

"You're going the speed limit."

"Oh." America bit his lip and focused on his driving as he took their exit. They found themselves on prettier country roads while the silence in the pickup grew thicker. Only twenty minutes in, and it wasn't shaping up to be the vacation that England had been hoping for. Of course, he had sort of imagined that they would spend the first few minutes making out in the airport restroom.

"Why on Earth did you use that machine again?" England finally asked.

"I needed some help with housecleaning," America admitted. He loosened his grip on the wheel and gave England an embarrassed grin.

"Ah, I see." The Englishman smiled wryly as he arched an eyebrow. "I do hope you realize that your house will still be dirty when we get back."

"Hey, that's not true! They've had a couple of hours."

"Yes, dear." England chuckled. "But I think you're forgetting that none of your personalities are the cleaning sort."

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As England expected, they arrived to find America's large Virginia house filled with clutter and dust. As much as America loved the place, he wasn't very good about its care and upkeep. England just sighed. He knew that his lover was never going to be a neat freak. The best he could hope for was some anal tendencies. Busy tsking at the state of the house, it took England a moment to notice the other Americas as they crowded around to welcome him at the door, like playful dogs lonely from staying home all day.

"Howdy, darling," the cowboy purred, tipping his hat to England. He stepped closer to steal a kiss, but a ball of energy raced between them and latched onto England's legs, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Engwand!" Freddie shouted happily. "You're back, you're back, you're back!"

Nothing in the world could stop the soft smile that suffused England's face. He leaned over and gave the boy a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Hello again, dearest."

"Where are the rest of you?" Freddie asked, glancing about curiously.

"There's only one of me," England reassured him.

The U.S. sauntered into the front hallway. His spiky, dark-toned wardrobe looked like it belonged in a Hot Topic store and England wanted to wipe away his the cocky grin. Or kiss it. Perhaps both.

"You didn't mention the idea, did you?" the teenager asked America tartly.

"Uh..." A guilty expression crossed America's face as he set England's luggage next to a messy pile of coats and shoes. "Not yet…"

"What idea?" England demanded.

"I want to see aww of the Engwands!" Freddie cried.

England's eyes widened as realization dawned. The idea of all of him and all of America hanging out together sounded like it would end in an orgy or disaster. Ever the pessimist, he decided to err on the side of caution. "No. Absolutely not."

"Come on, darling. Aren't you a little bit intrigued?" Al asked with a grin as the Americas crowded around him and began to beg and plead and cajole.

"It'll just be for an hour or two," America added.

"Pwease, pwease, pwease!" Freddie looked up at him with big eyes. "I want to pway with seven Engwands!"

Al winked. "So do I," he agreed.

England felt his resistance swiftly melting away in the face of Freddie's earnest pleas. (If he were being honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was attracted to Al's suggestion as well.) But reacting with his usual dishonesty, he glanced over at the U.S. and frowned. "Did you split yourself just to use Freddie's cuteness to sway me?"

The teenager lifted his hands. "Hey, it wasn't my idea!"

"We really did want to clean the house before you got here," America said. "I know how much you hate the mess."

"And I told them it wouldn't work."

"Ah... pity you were right," England replied, finding the teenager slightly more tolerable this time around. It helped that he knew the situation was only temporary. "Let me think about it," he said, finding it hard to say no in the face of four Americas.

While America carried his luggage upstairs, England took off his jacket and left his shoes by the door. He gave the pile of coats in the closet a pointed look as he hung up his own coat with one of the many unused wire hangers. For all of America's love of technology, the lad still had trouble grasping the purpose of basic items like coat hangers. Probably the only way to trick him into using a hanger would be to develop a wifi-enabled smart hanger with messaging technology. England mentally added the thought to his gift list. Really, it would be a gift for both of them.

Looking for something to ease the stress of his long flight, England headed to the kitchen. The sound of a whistling kettle immediately drew his attention to the stove. England had to smile at the fact that America still used an old-fashioned kettle instead of an electric one. It was rather charming, actually. He watched in further amusement as the U.S. grabbed the kettle and poured himself a cup of tea.

"What?" the teenager demanded as he set the kettle back on the stove. "It's not like I made it for you," he said defensively.

"Of course not." England hid a smile and made his afternoon tea. There was more than enough water for his cup, giving lie to the teenager's claim. But when he got a good look at the dirty dishes piled up in the sink, England wrinkled his nose and sighed.

"Hey, don't worry about the dishes," Al said as he slid up behind England and began to message his tight neck muscles with strong dexterous fingers. "I've got plenty of ways to keep you distracted."

"Like a game?" Freddie suggested innocently.

"Yeah. Maybe strip poker," Al agreed with a wink.

"What's strip poker?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," England promised, enjoying the adorable pout that appeared on Freddie's face.

The sound of steps pounding down the stairs heralded America's arrival. "So, have you made your decision?" he asked with an eager grin. "Just one more time, and I promise I'll never ask you again. Scout's honor!"

"Very well." England nodded and set down his teacup. "I have and I will. But..." he said, holding up a finger before the Americas could start to cheer. "I'm only doing it so that the seven of us can help you clean this messy house."

"I wonder how many of England's personalities are neat freaks?" Al mused.

"Probably all of them," the U.S. whispered.

"And just for an hour or two," England added, though he still wondered if he was making the right decision.

"Yay!" Freddie cheered and rushed over to hug England. And with that, the last of England's resistance melted away.

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"Don't we need your alien friend to split me into the same pieces?" England asked as he stared at the machine with trepidation. If the alien was involved, he was going to put his foot down, no matter how much Freddie begged. And he certainly hoped that America was right when he said he'd figured out a way to put a timer on the transformations.

"Nah. You step in under your own power, you pick the split," America explained. "That's how I did it the first time."

"Oh." Thinking about how happy Freddie would be, England took a deep breath and stepped into the machine. The door whooshed shut behind him, but England refused to panic. He closed his eyes and focused on his distinct personalities as bright light filled every pore of his body. His mind cleared and he stepped out the door with new clothes, a new attitude, and a sudden craving for punk rock.

"Engwand?" Freddie asked, his eyes as wide as saucers. The colony launched himself forward and gave punk England a tight hug. "Your hair is gween!" he said excitedly.

Before the punk could ask if Freddie wanted to dye his hair too, the boy squealed again and jumped to the next England in line.

"Engwand, Engwand, Engwand!" Freddie's excited shouts and bright laughter filled the room as he hugged the soldier and the gentleman, earning a smile from both. The boy's eyes widened again when he came face to face with an England wearing nothing more than a skimpy apron and a bowtie. He blinked and gave the nearly naked man a confused smile. "Did the machine steal your cwothes?" Freddie asked innocently.

"Don't look!" America cried, covering the boy's eyes and pulling him back before he could hug drunken England.

"But he looks so nice without his clothes," Al purred, raking his eyes appreciatively over Iggy's bare chest and lean legs.

"I look even better when you've 'ad a drink," Iggy slurred happily.

"Make it rum and a double for me," the pirate agreed. He sauntered forward, wrapping one arm around the drunken England as he gave Al a possessive smirk. The two sized each other up and from the hungry look in their eyes, both liked what they saw.

"So... DTF?" Al asked the pirate.

Captain Kirkland smirked. "Give me yer booty."

"Not in the living room!" the gentleman groused, glaring at the two as they snickered and slipped out of the room together, practically clawing each other's clothes off. Iggy stumbled behind, lured on by promises of alcohol.

While everyone else was busy watching the cowboy run away with the pirate, the U.S. took advantage of their distraction to sidle up to the punk, a look of pure hero-worship in his eyes. "Hey, you want to ditch these losers and listen to something good?" he offered. "I've got a whole collection of vinyls in the basement."

"How many of them are mine?" the green-haired England replied with a smirk.

"Almost... almost all of them," the U.S. admitted shyly.

"Then I'd better check them out," the punk agreed. The two slipped away so quietly that no one saw them leave.

Freddie was the first to notice their absence as he tried to count the remaining Englands and kept coming up short. "One... two... why are the Engwands weaving?" the little colony sniffled, his lip quivering.

"Don't worry, dear," Britannia Angel said as he stepped into the messy room with little England following quietly in his wake. He leaned forward and brushed away Freddie's tears. "I'm here now and I'm going to make everything better."

"You will?"

"First thing's first." The angel tsked as he looked around the cluttered house. "Bippity-boppity-boo!" he cried with a wave of his wand.

All around them, the house put itself to rights. Freddie glanced into the kitchen and jumped back in surprise as the dishes washed themselves until they sparkled. The drunk blinked and wondered if he had had too much to drink as he watched rags dance across the floor, leaving it sparkling clean. The two music-lovers blinked in shock as the records alphabetized themselves before their eyes. And upstairs the clothes hopped onto hangers and folded themselves into drawers, not that the cowboy or pirate noticed.

"Wow!" Freddie cried in amazement. "Thanks, Engwand!"

"Ah, such manners. How wonderful," the gentleman said approvingly.

Britannia Angel smiled and leaned down to bop Freddie's nose. "You're welcome, my dear. After all, Disney isn't the only magical kingdom," he said fondly.

Freddie giggled and gave the angel a hug. His gaped as he finally noticed the youngest England hiding behind the angel. The colony stepped closer, holding out his hand as he approached the wary child. "Hi! Do you want to pway with me?"

The English boy blinked and nodded hesitantly.

"Good. I'm Freddie!"

"My... my name is Albion."

"I'm going to call you Awbie!" The American darted forward and tapped Albion's arm. "Tag! You're it!" he cried before racing out of the room.

"Wait! Tell me what we're playing before you run away!" Albion complained as he chased after the other boy.

"Ah, he's so cute! I wish he had more kids to play with," Britannia Angel said wistfully. A moment later a flash of deviousness crossed his face and he started to raise his wand.

"Oh god, not this again," the soldier complained. Thinking fast, he grabbed the wand out of the angel's hand and turned it on its master. A puff of smoke dissipated to reveal a child with miniature wings and a tiny halo. His toga stretched to his knees instead of ending mid-thigh, which was probably for the best.

The young angel looked down at the much closer floor, then up at the other nations. When he finally realized what had happened, he smiled in delight. "Now Freddie and me can play together!" he cried happily, running off after the two other children.

The three remaining nations shared a glance. America wasn't sure why he had gotten stuck with the two straight-laced personalities, but he was a hero, and he was going to do his best to make England happy. At least he knew exactly which movie to suggest. He smiled brightly. "So... wanna watch An Officer and a Gentleman?"

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Hiding in a linen closet on the second floor, Freddie tried to stifle his happy giggles, but Albion was too good of a tracker for him. The young England threw open the doors and tagged him before running away in the opposite direction. As hard as Freddie tried, he just couldn't keep up with the other boy. He lost the other tiny nation amidst the maze of hallways and doors. Freddie frowned and tried to listen for any suspicious noises. His ears perked up as he heard something from America's bedroom. He opened the door with a triumphant cry and then paused when he didn't see Albion in the bedroom.

Al and Captain Kirkland were both naked and they were posed in a strange position on the floor, with their limbs in a twisted, complicated pattern. Well, they weren't entirely naked. Both men were still wearing their hats.

Freddie tilted his head to the side in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"Strip Twister," Al explained as he stretched his leg across the pirate's back.

"Fun! Can I play?" Freddie asked innocently.

"No," both the cowboy and the pirate replied at the same time.

"You'll never reach green from there," the pirate said to Al with a smirk. "You won't be keeping your hat for long, me hearty."

Irritated at being ignored, Freddie frowned and closed the door. He tried to think of all the good hiding places, but the only place left was his storage closet, and the older Americas had warned him to stay out of it. He tip-toed over to the door and glanced left and right. There was no one around, so there was no harm in just looking into the room, right? The door creaked as he opened it, but no one came running to stop him, so he decided it was okay to go inside. The sight of small footprints in the dust told Freddie everything he needed to know.

The colony grinned and followed the trail of footprints to a corner of the room. He spotted Albion sitting on the floor and prepared to tag him, but as soon as he came within touching distance he was distracted by the toys in the other boy's hands. Suddenly tag didn't seem quite as much fun. Not when they could be playing with his collection of wooden soldiers instead.

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Back on the first floor, America lounged between the two Englands and tried to remember if it was bad etiquette to use the yawn-and-stretch technique to wrap his arms over his boyfriends' shoulders. He knew that England ran cold and hot, and these two were definitely on the colder end of the spectrum. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? He decided to risk it.

"This is a romantic comedy, isn't it?" Mr. Kirkland asked with barely disguised contempt just as America started to move his arm.

"Uh, yeah. I thought you liked the mushy stuff?"

The gentleman rolled his eyes. "You thought incorrectly. I don't care for this twaddle."

"I would also prefer something with a bit more action," Britain agreed.

"Like a war movie? Or... a violent video game?" America asked excitedly. "Oh man, just wait till you see how awesome the graphics look on this TV!" he cried happily as he leapt off the sofa and ran over to his cabinets of neatly stacked games. The day that England wanted to play video games with him was officially the best day of his life. "I've got the latest Call of Duty and Battlefield and Sniper Elite! But I thought that gentlemen were, I dunno, too full of manners to punch someone in the face."

"A gentleman might not start fights, but he knows how to finish them."

"Except all of those times you started wars because you wanted land and resources," Britain noted sardonically.

"In my defense, tea does not grow well in English soil."

America couldn't decide if England was joking or not. Sometimes his deadpan humor was too hard for America to decipher. Assuming England wasn't joking, he looked through his games and scratched his chin. "Uh, I don't think I have a game where you invade China to steal his tea."

"What about India?" the gentleman asked.

"I don't think he has that sorta game either."

"Oh, give it a rest, Kirkland," the soldier complained. "If we're going to play anything, we should be defeating Nazis."

America grinned. "Now those games I got a ton of!"

"You shouldn't end a sentence in a preposition," the gentleman said as he pointed one finger at America. He pointed his other finger at the solider, "And it's Mister Kirkland."

Rolling his eyes, America leaned closer to the soldier. "Man, I think I need a game where we beat the grammar Nazis," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. With America's usual lack of volume control, the whisper didn't end up being much of a whisper.

"I suspect you would be rather skilled at that endeavor," the gentleman retorted.

America laughed and plopped down on the couch between the two Englands. "Man, I really missed this."

"You missed our bickering?"

"Yeah." He wrapped his arms around both Englands' shoulders. "Sometimes you get in a really good line and I just think, yeah, that's my England."

The gentleman smirked. "Ah, you're as mawkishly sentimental as your movies."

"But you love it."

"It's not... entirely disagreeable."

America chuckled. "Yep, that's my England," he said as he leaned in for a kiss. He savored the taste of tea on England's lips and enjoyed the way England could be so deliciously indecent while maintaining such a prim and proper exterior. With his head floating in the clouds from the satisfying kiss, America leaned back and sighed happily. "A gentleman in the streets. Adrenaline in the sheets."

Britain coughed in embarrassment. "Weren't we going to defeat Nazis?"

"Huh?" America blinked. "Oh... right."

He stood up to fetch his favorite game from the cabinet, but froze as he felt a chill run down his spine. His hero senses were tingling. Something was wrong. And the feeling was coming from inside the house...

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"Oh, no! Napoweon is attacking!" Freddie cried in childish glee as he and Albion moved the cigar boxes that represented the French forces across the dusty battlefield of the room's wooden floor. As they drew closer to the barricade of old books that surrounded the antique wooden soldiers, Albion took a position behind the barricades, kneeling next to the tidy rows of hand-painted soldiers.

"I know!" The English boy grabbed a handful of dust and blew it across the cigar boxes. "I make the field muddy with magic. Now they can't march."

"Wow!" Freddie's eyes sparkled with delight. "That's so cool"

Albion blushed. "It's just weather magic," he mumbled.

"What do we do now?" Freddie asked as his gaze returned to the make-believe battlefield.

"We… we use longbows!"

Freddie picked up one of the soldiers and scrunched his nose in confusion. "I don't think they have longbows."

"But an English soldier needs a bow!"

"Maybe they could use a gun instead?" Freddie suggested. He leapt to his feet and began digging around in the boxes in the corner of the room. He knew that he had an old gun around here somewhere. "Here it is!" he cried when he finally found what he was looking for. Although the bayonet was almost as long as he was, he easily hefted it into his arms.

A frightened look crossed Albion's face. "We shouldn't play with that."

"Don't worry!" Freddie replied with a confident grin. "I'm good with guns!" He ignored Albion's look of distress and carried the gun back to their barricade of books. All he needed now was some gunpowder and he could blast the cigar boxes to smithereens. Thinking excitedly of a box of fireworks in the corner, Freddie raced forward, only to trip over the books. He landed on his knee with a cry of pain as the books tumbled all around him. The gun was flung from his arms and landed knife-first, burying itself six inches deep into the wooden floor.

"I told you not to play with it!" Albion wailed.

Freddie sniffled and look down at his bruised and bloodied knee. It hurt so much! He gasped in pain as tears began to prickle in the corner of his eyes.

"You should have listened to me!"

Freddie pulled his knee closer to his chest and started to sob. He didn't understand why Albion was yelling at him! England was supposed to kiss his boo-boo and make it better. He wanted a different England. A nicer England.

With as much noise as they were making, it wasn't surprising that his wish was answered a few moments later as Britannia Angel burst into the room. Freddie didn't understand why the angel was smaller than before, but he was relieved to see him.

"There you are!" the little angel called with a smile. He hurried over to Freddie's side and his pleased grin disappeared as his gaze dropped to the bayonet sticking out of the floorboards. "You shouldn't be playing with guns," he chided.

"Engwand, it hurts," Freddie whimpered.

But it seemed that the angel didn't hear him. He was too busy staring at the gun. The toga-clad child reached out with one hand and traced a scar along the side of the barrel. "You kept it?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"We should hide, there are more people coming!" Albion warned as he glanced out the door. He quickly ducked behind several dusty boxes as they heard the sound of America and two of the Englands arguing back and forth down the hallway.

"…the last time, America, there is no such thing as a hero sense!"

"You probably just have indigestion from eating too many hamburgers."

"Hamburgers wouldn't betray me like… Hey! Who opened this room?" The American peeked into the dusty storage room and gaped at the scene in front of him. "Kids! You shouldn't be in here!" he shouted as he rushed over and scooped Freddie into one arm and the small angel into the other. "Come on, it's not safe in here," he explained, balancing the two children in his arms as he simultaneously tried to hustle the other two Englands out of the room.

"That one needs a plaster," Britain said, immediately spotting Freddie's wounded knee.

"Why did you keep it?" the angel whispered.

"Keep what?" America asked in confusion as he handed Freddie over to Britain for some expert first aid.

"That gun!"

"Oh." America flushed as he felt the other Englands look his way. He knew they were smart enough to guess what they were talking about. "I didn't... I didn't keep it on purpose. I'm just bad at cleaning." The excuse sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

"Why get wid of it?" Freddie asked, his tears starting to dry as Britain finished wrapping some gauze around his knee.

"Because it's a reminder of unhappy times," Mr. Kirkland replied.

Freddie scrunched his face in thought. "But I don't wanna forget! I was sad that you were sad. I wanted you to be happy. And now you are!"

The three adults shared a look of surprise. The gentleman smiled slightly and shook his head fondly. "Out of the mouths of babes…"

"Excuse me! I think you're the bae," America corrected him.

The soldier punched him in the shoulder, but they were all still smiling as they walked back downstairs to play video games together.

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Five minutes later, Albion snuck out of the storage room, only to run into a drunken England in the hallway. "Were you hiding the rum?" Iggy demanded.

"No, just hiding," Albie replied.

They both glanced up as Al and Captain Kirkland sauntered out of the bedroom, arms wrapped around each other's waists. Albion stared at them in confusion. There was something not quite right about their appearance, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

The drunk tipped his head to the side. "Am I completely blotto or are they wearing the wrong clothes?"

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Unable to hear the ruckus upstairs, the punk and the teenage rebel made out on America's ratty old couch while the best of British punk blasted in the room. The U.K. pulled back as the Adicts' 'I Am Yours' started to play. He sang the lyrics into the other nation's ear and grinned to see an adorable blush grow on the teenager's face. He wished he had known about America's vinyl collection back in the 1970s. It could have saved them both a lot of time and heartache. Somehow, in all the time they had known each other, they never managed to take the easy route.

"That's a good one," the U.S. murmured happily as he snuggled closer. "I really like it when you sing."

"I know."

"Maybe you should do 'All of Me' next?"

The punk arched an eyebrow. "Is that a request for the John Legend song or are you inviting me to a foursome?"

"The song!" the U.S. quickly replied, although he looked a bit intrigued by the other option as well. Perhaps, the punk thought to himself, he would have one last bit of fun with the machine before they both swore it off for good.

Pulling out his guitar, the Englishman rapidly lost himself in the lyrics of the love song. It was a good choice for them. The fond memories, the unhappy memories, all of it was part of his relationship with America. America loved all of him, and he loved all of America. Their relationship had always been special. But there was nothing like spending time with all of his lover's personalities to reassure him that it was also unbreakable.