England used the flight back home to ponder what to do with all the new information he'd learned. The problem was that he had no idea what he should do, really. Simply filing it all away in his mind seemed wrong. He felt restless at the mere thought, as though he had been building up to something and doing nothing instead would be a terrible mistake. But he wasn't sure what other option he had. It wasn't as though America had done something dangerous or terrible, something that necesitated a meeting or even taking him into custody. He was just very...England wasn't even sure what the word for it was.
So. He had to do something. It occured suddenly to him that the next step was fairly obvious. He needed to go talk to America. When he reached London, England bought a ticket on the next flight to the States.
America was surprised to see him, to say the least. The younger nation's eyes bugged behind his glasses in a way that made England fight down a smile.
"England?" America said, once he'd regained his bearing. "What the heck are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd drop by for a visit," England explained, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Could I come in?"
"Yeah, of course," America said, stepping aside to let England into his house. "I wasn't expecting you, is all. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," England said, standing awkwardly in the foyer of the house. Now that he was here, he wasn't really sure what he was actually going to say. 'You don't have a bunch of bodies rotting in your cellar, right?' Somehow, he didn't think that would go well regardless of the answer.
"Do you want some tea?" America offered. "I think I've got a couple packets stashed at the back of the pantry. I mean, I don't know if they're good or not, beacause, ew, tea. But you might like them, and-"
"Tea would be nice," England said, cutting off the string of babbling. He already felt reassured. So what if America had been slightly unhinged during his Cold War years? It was like he'd told Russia: they all had bad times. England could remember plenty of times throughout his own history when he'd teetered uncomfortably towards madness. He felt rather silly for getting so worked up.
He followed America into the kitchen, noting that the house was more or less unchanged from the last time he'd visited. That too was very reassuring. He sat at the table and watched as America set about making himself a cup of coffee and England a cup of tea. The entire scene was rather pleasingly domestic.
"So, what's up?" America asked, sitting down at the table and scooting England's tea over to him.
England wasn't sure where to start. He decided that at least a bit of the truth would probably be best.
"I've been thinking about the last meeting," he said, sipping his tea and trying not to grimace at the taste. At least America had tried. "Specifically, what happened with France."
"Oh. That." America looked down, turning his coffee mug around and around in his hands. "Look, that was--I mean, France isn't-"
"No, I'm well aware he's not angry," England said. "It was just so...unlike you." He took a deep breath. Saying the next words felt physically painful. "I was worried about you."
America beamed at him, and England resisted the urge to throw hot tea in his face. "Do not make me regret it," he added acidly.
"Sorry, sorry," America said, holding up his hands and laughing. "I just like seeing you lose that stiff upper lip and admit to having feelings like the rest of us."
"I'm going to slap you."
"Sure you are," America said easily. He sobered a little as he stared at England for a moment. "I'm sorry if I worried you. I'm fine, seriously."
"America, you attacked France."
"It wasn't..." he trailed off with a sigh, adjusting his glasses as he thought. "Things have just been rough, you know? I feel like the entire world is just waiting for me to screw up, and that's all I've been doing lately. I'm worried that everyone's going to get hurt because of me, and then France slapped you and I just sort of saw red." America's lips twisted. "Didn't like seeing you get hurt, even if it wasn't anything to be worried about."
"I don't need you to be some kind of white knight to me, America," England said. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."
"Would it be so bad to have someone looking out for you?" America asked, staring up at him from lowered eyelids.
"I don't know," England said, allowing himself to look at America consideringly for the first time in...well, the first time in ever, besides the realm of fantasies he'd rather not have admitted to himself. "It's never happened before."
After that, England steered the conversation to topics slightly more mundane, and by the time America was done with his coffee, England was feeling enormously reassured. He felt like an ass, having gotten himself worked up the way he had. The trip back home would be considerably calmer, he could tell already. He excused himself to go to the bathroom during a surprisingly comfortable break in their conversation. He could feel America's eyes on him as he walked out of the kitchen.
It wasn't until he was headed back from the bathroom that he noticed the picture of himself hanging in the hall. He stopped instinctively and was peeved to realize that what he'd immediately recognized was his own eyebrows. Grunting in irritation, he stepped a little closer to the picture, trying to remember where it had been taken. The fading light from outside didn't help much, since it was practically night, but he eventually placed it.
It was from the G8 summit last year. Based on how rumpled his clothes were, it was probably well into the meeting. England stared at it for a long moment, trying to understand why he felt increasingly uneasy looking at it. Finally, it clicked. He couldn't remember having his picture taken at that summit. In fact, the England in the picture didn't seem aware of the camera at all, staring into the middle distance with a faintly irritated expression on his face.
America had taken this picture without him knowing it. England took an alarmed step back, right as he heard America call out, "England? Everything okay?"
Later, much later, England would curse his own moment of indecision. If he'd just been able to speak, he could have made his excuses to America and left quickly, and maybe gone the rest of his existence being able to feign ignorance.
That wasn't what happened.
He was still badly shaken from the photo, staring dumbstruck at it. Coming on the heels of all of his calm, pleased feelings about America, it was a little like turning over a rock to see something squirming underneath. There was no avoiding the feeling of horror.
"England?" America called again, appearing at the end of the hall. For a moment, he was nothing but a silhouette, the light spilling from the kitchen throwing a long shadow down the hall towards England. Then he clicked the lightswitch on, flooding the hall with light and making England blink. "I heard the bathroom door open, I wasn't sure if..."
America trailed off as he came to a stop in front of England and saw what the other nation was staring at. England wasn't sure, but he thought he saw America's eyes flash.
"What is this?" England asksed, voice tight, gesturing to the picture.
"Looks like a picture of you," America said glibly, cheerfully. But England could see the way America seemed to be trying to figure out how much he knew.
"You took it without me knowing," England said, not letting America joke his way out of the situation. He wanted to take a step back, suddenly very aware of just how much taller America was, but he held his ground.
"Yeah," America said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down. "Look, I wanted a picture of you, and didn't want to ask you. I thought you'd say no and be a jerk about it, so I took one myself. I don't see what's the big deal."
England wasn't sure how to articulate it, how to explain that it was like a curtain had been pulled back and he could suddenly see everything in perfect detail. The falseness in America's movements, the danger that the picture of him represented, all of it stood out starkly.
"Because you snuck up on me and took a picture of me, and you did it all without me knowing, and--" he flailed, unable to explain it. The urge to step back got stronger.
"Like I said," America said, smiling at him, faking embarassment in a way that would have fooled England completely two weeks ago, "no harm meant. I'm not exactly proud of it. I'm sorry."
And it suddenly clicked for England. France, Russia, Japan, they'd all been right. God, they'd been completely right. Well, almost completely. America cared about him, yes, but it wasn't anything that simple or reassuring. England was beginning to fear the reality might be that America was obsessed with him.
And England was alone with him.
"France said--" England cut himself off sharply. If they'd all been right about America's feelings, it seemed increasingly likely that they were right about the danger America posed. England didn't want to turn America's attention their way.
"France said what?" America said, stepping even closer to him, still smiling widely. What big teeth you have, England thought, before he could stop himself. "Did France say something about me?"
"It's none of your business!"
"Oh, I actually think it is," America said. He loomed over England. "It's totally rude to talk about people behind their back, you know."
"I haven't been talking to anyone behind your back!" England snapped. While technically a lie, it was one he felt entitled to, especially when he felt his shoulders bump up against the wall as America boxed him in.
"That why you've been going on a world tour?" America asked, irritation tinging his voice.
"That had nothing to do with--wait." England's mind felt like it was somehow working lightning fast and painfully slow at the same time. England had been travelling nearly constantly, round trips to France, Japan, and Russia, but he'd been paying for it out of pocket instead of listing it as a business expense. No one should have known about it. Unless...
Unless America had been spying on him. Unless America had been spying on him so long and so efficiently that he could monitor all of England's comings and goings without the older nation ever having a clue.
"Oh my God," England muttered, the enormity of it hitting him. America instantly realized that he'd given himself away.
"Oops." The look on America's face was one England recognized; it was the one he'd always worn when he was a child and had been caught doing something bad. It made the entire moment a thousand times more surreal and terrible.
"I'm leaving," England said, trying to push past America.
"Now, Iggy, just hold on," America said, voice soothing, blocking England's path.
"Don't call me that, and don't get in my way!" England snapped, trying not to panic. He had to get out, he had to get away, he had to leave now. Hell, he'd take an entire day with Russia to dealing with America in his current state.
"Just calm down, we need to talk," America insisted, grabbing England's shoulder.
"Don't touch me!" England shouted. He felt a flash of animal terror and punched America in the jaw.
It was like hitting a brick wall. He felt a bone in his hand crack, the pain making him cry out and fall backwards with a bone-jarring thud. America's head whipped to the side, but he was otherwise unmoved. England remembered suddenly, horribly, how strong the other nation was.
"England," America said, smiling and rubbing his jaw, "you really shouldn't have done that."
"Get away from me," England ordered, voice low and tight. "If you think you can just-"
"Aw, England," America said, smile as sweet and sunny as ever. Except for his eyes. The look in his eyes... "Always barking out orders, always trying to be in charge. Always trying to bend everyone else to your will. Your citizens, not so much anymore, but you? You never change."
America lunged forward, nearly faster than England could see, and the smaller nation found himself dangling a foot off the ground, his shirtfront caught in America's fist. He clawed at America's hand, but to no avail. It was like trying to scratch concrete.
"But I did change," America said, still smiling. "You just never noticed."
And suddenly England found himself flying down the hallway, tossed hard by America. He hit the far wall with an impact that rattled the entire house, and England felt some of his ribs bend dangerously, felt his neck slam against the wall with a crack that terrified him. He slid to the ground with a thud, pictures raining down on him from the walls like the house itself was helping attack him.
England lay still for a moment, trying to catalogue his injuries. His hand was broken from hitting America. The ribs on his left side were definitely bruised, and turning his head made the muscles of his neck scream out in pain. The glass from the pictures had sliced small cuts through his jacket and along one side of his face. Things were definitely not good.
But he could still walk, which meant he could still run.
England shoved himself to his feet and lunged towards the door. His hand actually closed around the knob before America grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backwards, slamming him against the wall again.
"Oh no, I don't think you get to leave just like that," America said, wrapping a hand around England's throat and pushing him further up the wall. "We still have some things to talk about."
"Get your filthy fucking hands off of me!" England shouted, clawing at America's face, trying to get behind his glasses to the vulnerable eyes underneath. A terrified, mad part of him wanted to scrape that look out of America's eyes.
"Ha, no, I don't think so," America laughed, grabbing England's wrists in one hand and pinning them against the wall, almost effortlessly. "You just had to play detective, didn't you? Things between us were fine; why'd you have to screw it up by sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"
"America," England panted, blinking a little as blood from a cut on his forehead trickled into his eye, "America, you need help. Something is wrong with you."
"That something has been wrong with me for a long time, England," America said, still smiling cheerfully. That was probably the most disturbing part of it all. America was acting exactly the same as usual, except he was pinning England to a wall and very possibly about to murder him.
"No, no, this is-"
"You just didn't see," America murmured, letting his forehead touch England's gently, like this was some kind of tender moment they were having. "You didn't want to see." His voice went hard. "It wasn't convenient for you."
"Don't you dare try to blame me for this!" England hissed, eyes inches away from America's.
"Oh, of course it's not your fault," and America's smile went hard-edged then, too. "Nothing's ever your fault. You do whatever you want to the people who're weaker than you, you make them love you, and then you just leave-"
"You rebelled!" England said, incredulous.
"I saw what you were," America said, squeezing down hard on his throat until England gagged for air. "I was something for you to use, and you didn't give a damn that I loved you! You didn't give a damn about anything but yourself."
"You're insane," England gasped out, shaking his head. What in God's name was America talking about? The little bastard had rebelled, he'd cast England off and left a hole in his heart that had never quite filled, and he had the nerve to accuse England of leaving? The outrage spurred England on, and he reared back and slammed his head against America's nose as hard as he could.
He heard the crack of glass and a howl of pain, then suddenly the hands around his neck and his wrists were gone. England's body wanted to slump to the floor, but he knew that he needed to get out of America's house if he wanted to survive. The only problem was that America was blocking the door.
England took several steps back towards the stairs, mind whirling as he tried to figure out what to do. America looked up then, nose bloody and one side of his glasses cracked.
"Ouch." He grinned. "I actually felt that one, Iggy." Then America lunged for England again.
Panicked, England threw himself up the stairs. He could get out through the second story if he had to, he just needed to escape America long enough to get a window open. That would probably be easier said than done, though.
Sure enough, he felt America's hand lock onto his ankle like a vise, tripping him and sending him sprawling forward. England just barely caught himself, throwing his hands in front of him to keep his head from slamming against the stairs. America grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over, dropping his weight down onto England so hard that it knocked the breath out of smaller nation. America managed to pin one hand (thankfully not the broken one, though England was so full of adrenaline that he might not have felt it) underneath his knee, and had a hand locked hard around the other one. The were both silent for a moment, panting.
"I'm the one who's a monster, huh?" England said after a moment, lips drawn back into a snarl. "I'm the one who doesn't care about anyone else?"
"Oh yeah," America said, smirking a little. "It's still you."
"You're out of your mind," England said, because it bore repeating and if America was going to strangle him to death here on the stairs, he might as well get an insult in before he died.
"It's been said before, yeah," America said, letting his free hand rest on England's neck gently, fingers exploring the already forming bruises. England was trying to work up a suitably scathing retort when America spoke again, voice dreamy and fractured. "It only got worse, the bigger I got. There were so many people, and they were all so different, and I could hear them in my head, all at once. And some of them hated each other, hated like nothing I could understand. They wiped each other out, enslaved each other, hung each other, left each other poor and diseased and broken. They screamed about skin color, about religion, about where they were from, like they weren't all a part of me. Like I didn't love them all. And they all needed help, they were all screaming for it, and all I ever wanted was to help..."
America ducked his head so that England couldn't see his eyes, and his shoulders shook. England had literally no idea what to do, besides squirm underneath America and pray he got a chance to escape.
"But I was okay!" America said suddenly, brightly, head popping up with the familiar smile firmly in place. "I was handling things just fine." His fingers caressed England's throat again before tightening hard, so hard that England couldn't breathe at all. "And then they tried to split off from me. They tried to leave, my states, my people. They tried to leave me, and I was split in two, and they were killing each other, I couldn't--there was nothing I could do, England. They were all dying, and there was nothing I could do." His hand loosened on England's throat and he looked down, expression as heartbroken as England had ever seen.
"America... " England said, hesitant, wondering if he could defuse the situation if he just said the right thing. "America, it's okay. It's okay, we've all gone through that, it's not your fault."
"No," America said, voice and expression going dark suddenly, eyes gleaming madly behind his fractured glasses. "No, it was my fault. I didn't make them stay, just like I didn't make you stay. I wasn't strong enough." He laughed harshly, the sound loud and terrible in the silence of the house. "I wasn't strong enough to keep you from dumping your colonists all across my shores, and I wasn't strong enough to keep you with me when I did want you here."
"My colonists?" England asked, baffled. "America, they were your people-"
"I made them my people," America said, voice dark and silky, predatory, so unlike America that it was like a stranger was perched on top of England, crushing the breath from him. "It took a long time, you know. I had to push in all the right places. It was worth it, though. I knew I had to be strong to hold onto you."
"I was never yours to hold on to," England said, snarling a little.
"You were always mine," America said, grinning, teeth looking oddly sharp. "From the minute I saw you, you were mine.
England swallowed. He needed to get America off of him, and pinned down as he was, it wasn't going to be easy. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before looking up at America again. "Prove it, then."
America raised an eyebrow.
"If I'm yours, prove it," England said. Sneering, he added, "Unless you don't have the nerve."
America laughed softly, leaning over England until their faces were inches apart. "You think I can't see what you're doing." His free hand drifted across England's face, skimming along the edge of a cut. "You must think I'm an idiot."
"Are you turning me down?" England asked, voice equally quiet, body gone still.
"No," America said simply before leaning down and kissing England.
It was gentle and soft, completely at odds with everything that had happened that night, and England felt a sensation oddly like heartbreak. It shouldn't be like this, he thought, leaning up a little to kiss America back. It should never have been like this.
America let go of one of his wrists to run the back of his fingers along England's neck, movements still slow and gentle. England let himself lean into the touch, parting his lips to let America deepen the kiss. He made a soft sound, and felt America smile.
"First kiss," America murmured, lips never really leaving England's.
"It's a very strange one," England replied, eyes closing. He felt America shift, freeing his other hand, and he held still, knowing it was a test. After a long moment when the only sound was their harsh breathing, America relaxed.
England struck instantly, shoving America backwards down the stairs.
America's face was pale and shocked as he tumbled back, but England only caught a glimpse of it. He was on his feet in an instant, half-running and half-crawling up the rest of the stairs. His body was a cacophany of pain, a dozen different injuries all howling as he moved, but forced himself forward, ducking into the first room at the top of the stairs.
It was a guest bedroom, small and dark, but the window overlooking the yard was the sweetest thing England had seen in centuries. He locked the door behind him, wishing desperately that it had a deadbolt, and shoved one of the dressers in front of the door for good measure. It wouldn't keep America out for long, but it would buy England some much-needed time.
Except the window wouldn't open. It was stuck fast, as if it hadn't been opened in decades, and England was still straining against it and his broken hand when something slammed into the door with an almighty crash that shook the house. England froze for a moment, terrified. America.
Then he resumed struggling with the window, growing more and more panicked as it wouldn't open. He managed to jerk it up an inch, then two more, while America slammed himself against the door the entire time. England had just managed to get it open halfway (not nearly open enough) when the door was torn off its hinges entirely and the dresser was kicked across the room, legs squealing harshly against the wood floor.
America stood in the doorway, looking surprisingly calm and holding a machete in one hand.
"That was very clever, England," America said, smiling a little. He was bleeding, a long river of dark red leaking through his hair and down his neck, but his attention was entirely focused on England.
"That's my knife," England said stupidly. But it was. He recognized it from one of his trips through the Amazon, the chip in the blade from an unfortunate encounter with one of the native tribes.
"I've had it for twenty years," America said glibly, stepping forward into the room. "You clearly didn't miss it." He held the machete up, pointed towards England. "Get on your knees."
England glanced at the window, still stuck half-closed. He glanced at the knife, and remembered how it had effortlessly sliced through plants as thick as his arm. He sank to his knees, hands held up in the universal gesture of 'I mean no harm'. England doubted America would put much faith in that.
"I wonder how many of your other colonies would love to see you like this," America mused, his chipper smile still firmly in place and his eyes like nightmares behind his cracked glasses. He waved the blade hypnotically in front of England's face. "The ones in Africa, India, Australia, me. Maybe even Mathew. You crushed us underneath your boots like we were garbage. They weren't all as lucky as me. You leave a trail of destruction and death wherever you go."
"Look who's talking," England snarled up at him.
America lashed out, kicking him in the chest hard and knocking him onto his back. England wheezed in agony, feeling like his sternum had been cracked in two. It didn't help when America straddled him, knocking whatever breath he had left out of him.
"I wish I didn't love you," America said, losing his smile as he stared down at England. He looked sad and serious and so, so dangerous. "God, I'd give fucking anything not to love you."
"Let me go," England hissed, voice weak from the pain.
"No," America said simply. He used the machete to gently trace a line up England's chest, across his throat, until the tip of the blade was resting just underneath his right eye. America's voice was sorrowful and earnest as he said, "It won't be pretty. It won't be fun, or easy. Change never is. You'll survive it, though; we're hard to kill. Believe me, I know. And when I'm through with you, things will be better. We'll be together." He laughed, voice cracking midway through. "Forever."
There was no running, and no fighting America off, and England knew he wouldn't be able to trick the other nation again. So he took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think to do.
"America," he said, "I'm sorry."
America went still on top of him.
"I'm sorry," England continued, voice a little stronger now that he had his breath back. "I never...never knew that you were going through all of this. And I wish I could say that I would have made it all better if I had known, but you're right. I'm not always a nice person. I've hurt people and done it gleefully. I hurt you." He locked eyes with America. "And I'm sorry. But America, this won't fix things. This won't make them better. You have to let me go." He swallowed. "Please."
America did nothing for what felt like hours, just looking down at England with an expression that had gone blank and inscrutable. Then he stood suddenly and said, so quietly that England didn't hear him at first, "Get out."
England blinked up at him.
"GET OUT!" America roared, and England didn't need to be told twice. He hauled himself to his feet and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste, never slowing down once. Adrenaline pushed him forward when he might have collapsed, and he didn't dare relax until he was speeding down the highway, putting as many miles between America and himself as he could.
He didn't look back.
Epilogue:
England didn't stop until he hit America's border, waiting until he was well into Toronto before finally pulling over and getting himself to a hospital. He refused any painkillers, and may have overreacted slightly when they offered to sedate him. Predictably, Canda showed up within an hour of England being checked into the emergency room.
"What happened?" he gasped, staring in horror at England's injuries.
"How long?" England said instead of answering. At Canada's uncomprehending look, England added, "How long did you know about America?"
To Canada's credit, he didn't try denying anything. Instead he said, eyes pleading, "He's my brother, England. What was I supposed to do?"
"I would have appreciated a warning," England said, smiling frostily, "before he tried to slit my throat."
Canada just swallowed, looking shell-shocked. "What are you going to do?"
"Oh, I think I'll leave it to him to act," England said, tapping his fingers on the cast on his hand. He glanced out the window. "It shouldn't take long."
Canada did not look reassured.
His boss was equally wary when England got back to London and explained that he wouldn't be making any more trips to the States.
"I'm not suggesting we cut diplomatic ties with America, obviously," England said calmly, sipping tea in his boss' office. "That would be quite dangerous. But America and I have had a bit of a personal disagreement, and it would be in everyone's best interests if we let our politicians handle things between countries."
His boss' eyes kept flitting between the stitches on England's forhead and the cast on his wrist. "Yes, of course. Are...is everything all right?"
"Oh, everything's fine," England said, smiling pleasantly. His eyes had a distinctly cold look in them. "Oh, one more thing. I'd like a gun."
"What?" His boss gaped at him, startled.
"Will that be a problem?"
"No, of course not, but..." The other man seemed lost for words. "Are you absolutely sure everything is all right, Arthur?"
"Yes," England said, and his smile held a distinctly sharp edge. His boss hadn't been alive long enough to recognize the look in his eyes, but he felt extremely uncomfortable regardless. "It just never hurts to be prepared."