Dude, yes, I'm back. And dude, yes, I'm writing Hetalia.

I plan to make this the first in a series of one-shots, each one about America's relationship with a different president. I think this one might be a bit different from the rest, considering I strayed slightly from my initial vision, but please do review to give me suggestions! (Some presidents are more obscure than others. Way more so.)

"I didn't fight George III to become George I." ~George Washington (in office 1789-1797)

Sweet piano music and ornate dining room walls. The simplicity, the family, the love.

Those were America's favorite qualities of the room where he had shared many meals with Washington at Mount Vernon. Whenever he had a moment to slip away from Philadelphia or New York, the president always invited the nation to his Virginia residence. There, they were not leader and country but father and son. Nothing could bother them when they were off-duty, listening to Martha play piano and eating Washington's favorite food, cream of peanut soup. (America hated the thick, salty dish but would practically slurp it up for his hero.)

It was a tranquil haven, far from the confusion of the nascent government. But, America reminded himself, Washington was a wonderful politician. Though nearing the end of his eight years in office, he had encountered hardly the problems expected. The previously divided states had begun to coalesce into a true country; new territories were joining every day. All by the same hand—the sturdy, kind hand of his leader—peace had been both won and maintained. America felt himself becoming stronger and changing every day—taking shape, in a sense. Yes, everything was beginning to form properly and come together in his heart. Apart from the rest of the world, together with his people, America was becoming a true nation.

He was growing up. But not just aging or becoming taller, as he had under England. Not just gaining a culture or reputation, not just being recognized. He had passed those milestones; he had come of age. Now, he was gaining his nationhood, his sense of identity.

America was becoming like one of the others, like one of the nations he had admired for so long. And under a man he admired just as much, a man he saw as his father.

Mesmerized, he listened to Martha's lilting fingers on the piano as she played a careful legato melody in the nearby drawing room. Of all his people, she had most vehemently disagreed with her husband when he accepted the presidency. America smiled as he remembered her revenge: refusing to attend the inaugurations in both Philadelphia and New York. He knew the two loved each other and their adopted children. For them, this home symbolized the early days of their marriage, times America knew his president wanted to reclaim. They both missed Mount Vernon when they had to be at the capitals. The country, the real essence of America himself, always beckoned to them.

And so it was that the present had to end and the future had to begin.

America knew the occasion. Washington hadn't invited him here for no reason. No… there was something bigger than friendship at the heart of this visit. Something with a bigger impact on the people, at least.

Washington was planning to retire. He had already rewritten his former farewell address and published it in The Independent Chronicle. With no wishes to be a king, no desire to continue his leadership, and no youth to pledge more years, he had made his retirement official not long before a new president was supposed to be elected.

Like his people, America had to feel sad. He personally knew all of the candidates for the presidency, but none of them could be Washington the fighter, Washington the general, Washington the man. They couldn't be him; they had to imitate him. And for America, a fake could never quite get close enough to the original.

His sigh was interrupted with the slave's call that dinner was ready. He rose from his chair and sat in another at the large table covered with a white cloth. Martha came in from the drawing room, her heavy skirts dragging behind her and her voluminous curls peeking from on top of her head. She smiled at America and took her place at the table.

"We're always so glad to have you here," she said. "It's wonderful to know the country for himself."

Like Washington, she knew who America was. She understood he wasn't just a human like them, but a nation. No one seemed to find the matter strange in the slightest; the relationship between America and the Washington family was too natural for that. America supposed they understood he would live on long after them, though always changed by their influence. This reality best defined the familial feelings they had for each other. Martha and Washington were careful to "raise" America properly; as a result, they saw him as their child. America reciprocated—the couple took care of him, like loving parents. And he always played with their adopted children, who were now walking (as quickly as was dignified) to take their seats at the table.

Washington himself entered next, standing tall in the doorway. His gaze was warm like the flickering candles on the table. Though old, his figure remained as gallant as it had been during the frostbitten winter of Valley Forge. America felt the familiar chill blowing down his spine as he recalled that winter that must have been sent from a frozen hell. During those endless days, the cold was an omnipresent god that mercilessly punished the rebel soldiers. A god that tortured his people. Neither he nor Washington was about to stand for that.

The chill disappeared as the president took his seat. Here, he was a father and husband, leader of a family, not a country. And now, that leader humbly bent his head and thanked Providence for the meal, which the slave was setting on the table. America's abnormally large stomach grumbled at the sight of roasted potatoes, a few kinds of wild game, plenty of fish, glasses of wine and cider—and was that a cream trifle he smelled in the kitchen?

Washington smiled at America's eagerness.

"The food is good," he said. "Perhaps a little more extravagant than I would choose, but quite to your taste, I know."

America sat up a bit more and felt sheepish. Although Washington never corrected his manners, he still heard England's voice in his ear, telling him he wasn't quite using the right utensil or eating his food properly. The nation sighed at the memory of his former ruler; he still hadn't recovered from the pain of the war. The relationship between the two countries could never be what it once was. America knew he had lost the past; he couldn't force it to return. Even with Washington leading him, he still hadn't decided what to do. Even with a new treaty lessening tensions between colony and colonizer, he still didn't know how to reach out to England personally.

He looked up to the sight of Washington's understanding gaze. He knew how his country sometimes became caught up in memories of England. As a human, he couldn't completely understand the relationships of nations, but he supposed they had to relate to each other in ways humans could not.

Washington sighed. His isolationist ideas would be hard for this young man to follow, but just as a father always did what was best for his son, so too did Washington choose the best path for his nation. They would safeguard him from the pain of war, the agony of lost loyalty. The European continent was in danger with all the wars he could foresee. If every country had a person who personified them, represented all they were, he couldn't imagine the approaching pain. His son would not have to participate in that.

As the head of the family, Washington began the meal but as the humble man he was, he made sure to let his guest (hardly a guest in his estate) have the dishes soon after him. America took plenty of food, filling his plate with succulent meat and salty potatoes. He felt some satisfaction in the absence of the cream of peanut soup. Somehow, he wondered if Washington perceived his dislike from the beginning. But then he smiled and figured it remained a secret.

The meal continued with light conversation. Martha talked about the weather, and the children about their father's horses. Washington responded with nods and comments where appropriate, but concentrated primarily on the pain in his mouth. His false teeth had caused him more agony than ever recently. Moreover, he felt his age in his bones—he was no longer a young husband or middle-aged general, but an old father. One who would have to abandon America soon with his impending death. He had spent his years well, he thought. To be sure, the current political situation was less than desirable—would those political factions please stop their horrendous spats?—and the country had turned against him when he withheld information regarding the treaty with England. He had to guard his every move: one mistake could be repeated indefinitely because of his precedent.

He didn't know how he would be remembered compared to other leaders. But he knew in the heart of his country, his son, he would be thought of with kindness and love. And in turn, when America left Mount Vernon to return to help his successor, he would think of him as the young adolescent he met years ago. When they met, America had been in the rebel's tattered blue uniform, with determination on his face and a gun held in his hand—he must have had expert firearms training: no other soldier could handle a weapon in such a way.

Yes, Washington would think of him as the man who stood over the greatest nation in the world and refused to fire. The merciful soldier who left his enemy to cry in the rain—to cry over the one he loved. The spunky man who fought with the rebels and then had the gall to show up for the signing of their Declaration—yes, his omnipresence had first made Washington suspicious. He seemed to be at every major skirmish yet every major debate, always in the battlefield but always in the government buildings. He really hadn't known how this man, so young, could manage such a thing.

But he realized the truth near the end of the war. The way the man perfectly embodied the American people—all of them, no matter cultural, religious, or geographic differences—and had a twinkle in his eye that said, "I am America," made him understand this person's identity. All along, he had fought with his country, for his country, by his country, as he had always envisioned.

That determination gave him the motivation to win the final battles of the war and subdue England in the end.

He smiled as he watched his family chatter amongst themselves, happily eating as much food as they desired. This was the peace he had fought for. This freedom for the people of America and for America himself.

And, as he took in the idyllic scene of his precious family, he knew he had taken good care of his son.

Washington was known as "The Father of His Country." Hence America's figurative sonship.

America is different here, but that's to be expected. From a historical standpoint, he grows and changes through different presidencies. I imagine him as still kind of young and trying to figure things out at this point.

John Adams is next!