A/N: So, technically this is what I call a "mini-prompt", which I usually keep exclusively on tumblr. But I haven't updated in a while, so I figured I'd post this and use it as an opportunity to promote myself.

There are 35 more mini prompts on there that are tumblr exclusive, as well as 3 sentence fics and all sorts of things that don't get cross posted to anywhere else, including a very very very small selection of non-usuk stories. It's also where I take requests.

So if you don't follow me, give it a thought. Same username.

"What're you going to sing, Miss Lamont?"

"I love this part," America exclaimed with a giggle that promptly turned into a congested gurgle.

He shifted with agitation, lifting his head up off of England's lap just enough to cough– a horrible, wet sound. Obviously out of breath, he settled back down, engrossed once more in the television screen.

All England could do was rub his back soothingly, feeling how much he was burning up even through the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. America insisted he wasn't sick, just that he didn't "feel good". There were hardly many reasons to these days, England supposed. It all added up, or bottling it away like America tended to do added up.

"Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place…"

He'd tried to mask it with his usual annoying cheerfulness, but even for all his super strength America hadn't been able to keep up the facade for more than a couple of days. Coughing, sneezing, body aches, chills; it had all proven too much to cover up.

Not that England minded the chance to play nurse. It was a good excuse to be more outwardly doting than he was usually inclined, without the fear of being teased for it. But it hurt his heart to see America miserable.

America laugh-wheezed again at the chaos on-screen, and England let himself be distracted by it for a moment. It had been difficult for England to sit through America's little movie musical marathon and enjoy it, being so worried and trying so hard not to be overbearing in his attentions every time America so much as twitched. One film blended into the next, and though they were charming, England wasn't nearly as gripped by them as America. At least he knew the words to most of the songs in Singin' in the Rain.

"God, she was so beautiful," America murmured as Debbie Reynolds turned her tear-stained face toward Gene Kelly.

England made a noise of agreement. This part of the plot was most predictable of all. Crying, running to one another, passionate embraces, romantic kisses, fade to black, credits; tidy and satisfying. That was what America loved about them, he'd confessed once. Everything always turned out all right in the end. Maybe not perfect, or totally happy, but right. England could understand the craving for that, at least.

"What now?" he asked when the DVD player returned to its menu.

"Mary Poppins?"

"Seriously? The books are better."

"Yeah, yeah," America rolled onto his back so he could look up at England, "but Julie Andrews is the best. And she's smokin' hot in it."

England scoffed and brushed wayward hairs off of America's sticky, flushed forehead.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that's the fever talking."

"No way. Totally my type."

"And what's that?"

"Old fashioned, English, and kinda mean."

A brief scuffle ensued, America laughing and dodging and wiggling about as much as he could lying down while England pinched and prodded at his sides with a pretend dour expression. Their play ended abruptly as America shot into a sitting position and hacked miserably into the elbow of his sweatshirt, struggling to catch his breath between fits. England gave him space, a gentle hand on his back the only comfort he could offer until the coughing subsided.

With a heavy breath, America slouched back into the sofa, head lolling on the top edge. He looked exhausted, but managed a smile despite it all, and England ached to kiss him. Instead he brushed the hair off his forehead again, this time trailing his touch down to his cheek.

"I'm okay," America answered before England could ask. "It's just—"

"I know."

"Everything'll get better."

"I know."

"It has to."

England nodded, unconvinced, but needing to agree. He gave America a final pat on the cheek, and America took his hand and kissed it, holding it briefly to his chest before letting it go.

"Mary Poppins it is, then," England said, attempting a touch of cheerfulness in his voice as he busied himself with locating and putting in the DVD.

America sniffed and tried to stifle a few rumbly coughs.

"Could you make tea first?"

"Goodness, you must be feeling terribly if you want tea," England teased.

America slouched down farther and put his feet on the coffee table with a grin.

"I was going to make a 'spoonful of sugar' joke, but I do actually want some."

England rolled his eyes and smacked America's feet as he walked past. But with a secret smile he stopped behind the sofa and placed a careful kiss on the top of America's head.

He could hear America humming along to the opening credit music from the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional sniffle. England did his best to put aside his worry, now looking forward to that predictable ending, however at odds with reality it seemed.

"Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-ee, a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be…"