"Are you Benjamin Connor?" the question came from a tall young man standing inside the crowded and smoky tavern as he looked at an old sailor nursing a pint of beer in the corner.

The old sailor looked up at the blond youth standing in front of him. "Aye, that be me. What da ya want child? I'm no fr tellin tales t'day so run alon if'n that be what ya want." He saw the young man bristle.

"I'm not a child! I'm nearly…." A pause. "I'm not a child." The young man finished. "And I'm not here for a tale."

Benjamin looked at the man again. No, this was no child. Fifteen, maybe sixteen if he missed his guess, fair-haired and tanned, with arms that spoke of hard work in the sun. "Well, if'n you're no comin ta hear a story, what be ya hear for?"

"I've been told you're the best at, putting art onto a person's skin." The boy shifted from foot to foot, obviously a bit nervous, but just as obviously determined.

"Aye, I've no mean skill with a needle, or so as I've bin tol. Ya dinna look like a sailor, to be wantin' such things boy. What be ya wantin' the typical good luck? A cock and a pig t'be safe from drownin'?"

The blonde shook his head. "No, I have something a little, different in mind." He pulled a faded piece of paper out of his pocket and looked quickly around the tavern before unfolding it on the table.

The old man glanced at it for a bare second before folding it back up and pushing it back across the table. "That be a dan'rous thing t'be showin' around these days. An even more dang'rous thing to be wanting on one's skin where it canna be taken off. Ya be sure ya wan this?"

The young man just nodded, a fire in his blue eyes. "Please, it's important to me. I can pay you."

The Benjamin thought for a moment, considering the man in front of him. A moment later he nodded. "Aye, I'll do the piece for ya. Ya can buy me drinks til I'm done, and we'll be callin' it even" He stuck a calloused hand out where it was quickly grasped by the young man's equally roughened palm. "Come up ta me room, ya be wantin' privacy me thinks. What be your name young 'un?"

"Alfred. Alfred Jones." He grinned, teeth radiant against his tan skin and the old man smiled in return.

A round of drinks and a bottle of rum were brought up to the old sailor's room and Alfred sat down on the floor as Benjamin indicated. "Now, where ya be wantin' this at?"

Alfred replied by unbuttoning his shirt and indicating a patch of muscle over his heart. Benjamin looked at the youth in front of him, tan skin stretched over a muscled frame that already sported a few scars. Alfred noticed the man's attention. "I got them fighting in the French-Indian War." The old man's bushy eyebrows went up, the young man certainly didn't look old enough to have fought in that mess. As though reading his thoughts (or maybe it was just that easy to read his face) the younger man smiled. "I told you Benjamin, I'm not a child. I'm older than I look."

"Good." Benjamin growled, "this be no business for children. Here" he tossed Alfred the bottle of rum "Start on that, 'til help it ease the pain."

Alfred obeyed, uncorking the bottle and taking a long pull of the liquor as he watched the old man pull out his equipment, needles attached to sticks, a bottle of ink and several blackened pieces of string. "Gimme that piece a paper, son." Alfred pulled it out, handing it to Benjamin as he sat down across from him, the paper spread over his knee. The sailor frowned at it for a few moments and then brought the needle up to Alfred's skin and paused. "Don't ya be movin' now. Ya do that 'n I'll hafta smack ya."

Alfred nodded, taking another long drink from the bottle as the needle pierced flesh. He winced, trying his best not to move. This hurt more than he had expected, he wasn't a stranger to pain, but before he could always do something to make it stop. But he wanted this, he reminded himself, another sign of his break from Arthur, like when he had changed his name. He felt the rum start to take effect and he took another drink when Benjamin paused his pricking to wipe at the ink with a rag, frowned at his work and nodded, and then went back to setting the pattern in the young man's skin. Slowly the head of an American Timber Rattler emerged, mouth open in defiance, then down to the coils and the rattles, thirteen in all, raised in unison and warning. Black ink and red blood were wiped away by the old man's sure hand, careful not to smear the marks that were setting in the flesh. Then the letters across the bottom, both a promise and a threat etched into skin. Don't Tread On Me.

The sun was setting as the last letter was set into skin. Benjamin turned away from the young man, lighting a lamp and surveying the work, realizing just how important that picture was to Alfred. "It'll be scabbin' up soon, once the scab comes off she'll be right as rain."

Alfred nodded, a little woozy both from the pain and the rum. "Thank you."

"Ya won be thankin' me if'n ya get caught wif somethin' like that etched on ya. Ya best be covrin' that up."

Alfred only nodded again, buttoning the shirt. He had a very specific audience in mind for this, but Benjamin didn't need to know who or why. He smiled. Arthur was not going to be happy, and right now, that was every bit as important as what the rattler and letters over his heart stood for.

Author's note: This was inspired by a conversation in the IRC channel (minor pimpage pause: Come to the #Hetalia IRC channel on .net!) with Alfred's mun, where it was debated whether Alfred would have a tattoo or not. Consensus said yes, and after the mun decided on the Gadsden flag as the design, well, this fic practically wrote itself. Here's your present US-mun, hope you like it.