Author's Notes: Those who follow my tumblr know I've been looking for a story with kidnapped America for a while (I don't care who kidnaps him). But I haven't really been able to find too many, so I had to resort to writing one, which makes me sad. But what can you do?

England's kinda weird here. He likes America to the point where he thinks what he's doing is for the best. It's really just a warped view of love. Anyway, this shouldn't be more than a couple chapters. I was going to make it a oneshot, but it would've been wayyy too long for that, so here's this.

There's a leak in the ceiling. It just drips and drips all day, the beads of water creating a small pool in the saucer beneath it. It's a distracting noise, each time a drop joins the others, and it's monotonous enough to drive a person crazy.

Well. Near crazy.

This leak is the most interesting aspect of the room, an ordinary little room, decorated with nature photos on aged wallpaper. It's as ordinary as a bedroom can get, consisting of a bed, a dresser with a vanity mirror, and a variety of trinkets America can remember from his childhood that he vaguely registers owning once upon a time.

But this leak is what captures his attention. It's a clue, you see. A clue that has him sitting cross-legged on the mattress with a chewed up lip and a tenacious glint in his eyes. A leak means access to water of some kind. Now the question that's been spinning around his mind for the past day is all in relation to that leak.

Is it water from a broken pipe of some sort in the wall? Or is it perhaps a leak from worn down wood and plaster in the ceiling of the house, from rain and the other elements?

This is important, because the answer to the leak riddle will tell him if he's on the upper floor of a building, or stuffed somewhere in a basement.

"Basement," America mutters, the words tart on his tongue as he grimaces. He's almost positive it's a basement, and that makes this situation much, much worse. He's only ever woken up groggy with a pounding headache behind his eyes and a cottony feeling in his mouth a handful of times. He can count each incident on one hand. But this feels different. This time he's not sure what to do with the tendrils of anger and panic bubbling up inside his belly, warring with each other.

This time it's a more personal matter.

America perks up, eyes darting to the door when he hears footsteps approaching. Solid, quick, filled with purpose. He's been waiting for him to come back.

Anxiously, America sits back against the wall and crosses his ankles, summoning his best acting abilities to appear nonchalant. That is the farthest from how he feels; bitter and betrayed.

The lock clicks as a key is twisted inside, the large metal door slowly opening to reveal a polite toothy smile.

"Evening, mate. I've brought you supper."

America doesn't say anything. He simply stares at his apparent captor with a look of indifference, his eyes tracking the Briton's every move as he shuts the door behind him with a flick of his ankle. England doesn't appear at all distressed about this situation. America's lips twitch in a frown when he hears the soft humming coming from him as he sets a tray down on the bedside table.

"I assume you're hungry this time?" he asks, green eyes flicking up to meet America's.

"No," he denies petulantly. It only aides in England's amusement, which pisses him off even more.

"You don't have to be so paranoid. It's not as if I'm going to drug you," England says, shrugging his shoulder and rolling his eyes at the idea. He takes a seat in the wooden chair beside the bed.

"Again," America corrects.

England bobs his head once in surrender. "Yes, again. No use for that kind of treatment now. You're already safe."

"I wasn't in danger to begin with!" America growls, his lip curling back in annoyance. Just remembering the other day is enough to get his blood boiling.

England had invited him out for lunch at an old deli America loved. It had been a while since they'd gotten together to catch up and talk, so America had to admit he was a bit excited to see his old companion again. But England had been acting weird, fidgeting a lot more and glancing about. It wasn't until he'd finished his cup of coffee that the world started to fog around the edges. He felt heavy, weighed down by blackness encroaching on his eyes and limbs.

When he had woken up, bleary-eyed and nauseous, he'd been in this room.

"You don't need to raise your voice," England reprimands with a small scowl. He crosses his leg over the other and settles back in his chair. "I've already spent all of yesterday explaining this simple fact to you. If you can't grasp it by now, there's simply no point discussing it further."

"Oh, please, England," America pleads mockingly, prompting two large eyebrows to start furrowing. "Please tell me more about the world, because you obviously know so much and I know so little." He scoffs, blowing a terse puff of air from his nostrils. "That's bull. You're lying to me."

"I am not," England denies, leaning forward, trying to convince America of these facts. "You know more than anyone how you rub people the wrong way. The world has purely gotten too dangerous for you to be traipsing around wherever you so please. I'm helping you."

"By kidnapping me and locking me in your house?" America asks incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

"Please," England scoffs. "As if I would keep you in my own place of residence. You're loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood."

"So, what? We're in the woods or something?"

"Or something."

"God damn it, England," America huffs, moving to rub his hands over his face in exasperation when his wrist catches. He glares daggers at the metal band around it, connecting it to the radiator near his headboard. "For the love of – When are you going to take this off?"

"That all depends. Are you planning on hitting me again?" England asks. He wasn't going to make the same mistake as yesterday. When America had realized where he was and what was going on, he'd all but punched him in the gut. His stomach is now decorated with ugly smears of purple and blue.

"Duh."

"Then the short leash stays on."

"I'm not a dog, and you can't keep me caged up in here. I don't know where you suddenly got this warped idea in your head that I need you to protect me from something that's not there –"

"You do need my protection," England interjects vehemently. "You've always needed it, but you're far too stupid to realize that."

America ignores him and continues on. "But I'm a big boy now. I can handle my problems by myself."

England shakes his head, clearly not convinced. "You're mistaken."

"Regardless," America snaps, leaning forward but halted by the handcuff. He curses. "What's that thing you used to say to me? I made my bed, and I have to lay in it or something or other? Like, I'll deal with my own demons, you deal with yours."

"And what are you proposing?" England inquires, his voice soaked with indignation as he crosses his arms against his chest. "Have you cause chaos and get yourself into a situation you cannot retract yourself from while I sit idly by and watch?" The bitter scowl lines around his mouth smooth out as something stirs behind the green of his eyes that has America hesitating. England's shoulders sag and he looks away with a frown. "I can't do that," he mutters.

It's quiet a long moment before America nudges England's knee with his own, gaining his attention. "Sorry," he says, picking his words carefully and saying this as gently as he can. "That's life sometimes, England. You can't keep me in a box."

A flicker of sadness darts across England's features, and America feels it deep down in his bones, right before it's gone and replaced with resolute denial. He stands up and eyes America suddenly with a distant gaze, apathetic.

"I beg to differ."

With that he pivots his feet and makes to leave. America becomes consumed with a rush of panic at this abrupt turn of events.

"You've gotta be kidding me – England! Get your sorry ass back here. I swear to God, if you shut that door –" He lets out a bellow of frustration, kicking his legs wildly against the mattress when the door clicks shut, and England's footsteps fade away.

"How are you today? In a better mood I hope."

America doesn't say anything. He merely glowers at the wall, refusing to meet England's gaze. It's morning, he assumes. England smells like pancakes and syrup, so he figures it has to be. That, and he's tired as all shit.

"I suppose not, then," he sighs, taking in the spilled soup bowl on the hardwood floor. He doesn't understand why America has to be so difficult. Obviously his food was not tampered with. There is no point to meddle with his meals when he already is safe and protected from the drama he's caused about the globe the last three hundred years.

"I see you've taken to redecorating," England murmurs distastefully, seeing the scuffed and shredded wallpaper from where America's shoes must've kicked at it.

"I do wish you'd be more careful with this tray. Playing the role of Gandhi will get you nowhere," England tuts, his nose crinkling when remembering that Indian activist. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and sops up the soup with a towel he brought.

He makes a few attempts at conversation, but America never says a word; never even looks in his direction. It's not like he didn't expect this. America has always been stubborn from the day he'd met him. It would take a little time before he adjusted to this new living situation.

The sooner the better, England grumbles in his mind when he hears the clatter of dishes behind the door he just closed. Syrup isn't going to be a delight to get off the floor.

America hates this room. He's not quite sure how long it's been since England went off his fuckin' rocker and went all Misery on his ass, but he has an estimate. Judging by the meal regiment, he's been here three – going on four –days.

Out of bullheadedness, he planned on refusing all meals from the get go, but his stomach had other ideas when it started singing opera to him in the middle of the night. He'd caved and eaten the sandwich that was left on his nightstand, regretting it immediately when he saw the knowing smile England regarded him with in the morning.

He's yelled and he's given the silent treatment, but today his mind has come up with something new. If anything, he just wants this damn handcuff off his wrist. It's starting to turn the skin around it an angry red from where he's been pulling at it.

Today the "short leash" will be coming off.

So when England comes in with a tray of some sort of pasta and bread, America musters up his determination and makes eye contact. England blinks in surprise but doesn't comment any further on it. He sets the tray down and removes the last untouched meal, as per routine the last two days.

Before he can silently exit the room, America makes a very obvious show of reaching for the tray and setting it in his lap. He twirls his fork around the strands of noodles and slurps them loudly into his mouth, taking a large bite of the bread at the same time.

England stares silently at the edge of his bed, observing. America washes his mouthful down with the glass of milk and takes another bite.

"Thanks," he says, peering up at England through his bangs. His voice brings the Briton out of his stupor, allowing him to nod.

"Your appetite is back? Or have you finally understood that I'm not going to poison you?" he ponders aloud, taking a seat in the chair beside the mattress.

Eating is hard to do with only on free hand, so America just takes bigger mouthfuls. He won't admit it, but after days of not eating hardly anything, even England's soggy pasta tastes like heaven. He shrugs and licks his lips.

"Had a lot of time to think," is all he says.

Yeah, a lot of time to think of all the ways I'm going to knock you into next week, his mind growls. I had to use a God damn bedpan, you jerk.

"Oh?"

America glances away and swallows, pausing in his messy show of eating. "Just about stuff . . . Stuff I've done and the position I put myself in – you in." He frowns and picks at a stray string on the quilt beneath him, trying to look like he's apologizing for being wrong. Even though it's an act, the next words taste bad in his mouth.

"You're kinda right I guess."

England is silent, his eyes darting about America's face, looking for the catch; for the trick. When he doesn't appear to find one, he relaxes. "What about?"

America huffs. Man, he's going to make him spell it out for him, isn't he? "Just that I can see why you'd be concerned. I mean, it's sort of fucked up, but this is like telling me you don't want me to get in trouble, or worse. You like being with me."

When he glances at England's face, something in his gut stirs awkwardly, seeing the Briton's face suddenly bleeding a shade of scarlet. He looks away quickly and continues on. "Anyway, so I just wanted to say sorry for hitting you. That was uncalled for."

England takes a moment before he manages his voice, clearing his throat and adjusting his collar. "Yes. It's quite alright. I should've known something like this would spook you. Do understand I would have discussed it with you first if I had any hopes that you'd agree without a quarrel."

You're damn right I wouldn't agree to this. America beams and pats England on his knee the best he can with his limited reach. "No sweat. I would've done the same thing if it were reversed."

Yeah right.

"So," he starts, plopping his hands against his thighs with a smile. "How long is this temporary arrangement going to last?"

England purses his lips, looking deep in thought. "I'd wager until things cool down a bit. With your absence, perhaps the poorly chosen tiffs you started will smooth over."

"So, what? A couple'a months?"

"A few years at the least. You've rubbed yourself raw in all the wrong ways, against all the wrong people, America." England shuts his eyes with a frown, crossing his arms. "It's going to take time to assure your safety."

America's smile plummets to the floor. "A few . . . years. Well isn't that . . . something."

Jesus Christ, the premise of being trapped in this room for years on end has America feeling claustrophobic. He suddenly feels suffocated under the smothering embrace of England's bizarre, unhealthy affections.

"I should get a tour, then," he offers, unwilling to let his horror show on his face. "If we're going to be roomies, I should know what we're working with."

His hands start to sweat as he waits for England's response. He's staring at America very hard and it's unnerving; it's like he's weighing the likelihood that America's lying and will knock his teeth out the moment he unlocks the cuff.

America feels sick.

But then England smiles and it's like the light at the end of a tunnel. It has America letting out a relieved puff of air, sinking against the headboard behind his back.

"Sounds marvelous," England says, fishing a small key from his vest pocket and grasping America's abused wrist with nimble fingers. He's mindful of the sore skin as he unhooks the metal clasp from his body, letting it dangle from the pole on the radiator.

America lifts his hand slowly, suddenly surging with irritation and resentment, when he curls his hand into a fist and gingerly rubs at his wrist. He doesn't make a move to hit England, or even strike out. England notices this, too, as if he'd expected some sort of instant backlash.

He's pleasantly surprised when there is none.

"This way, please." England gestures for America to follow him, opening the door like a gentleman would. America scurries off the bed eagerly, excited for any kind of stimulation. He's a social being, and being kept away in a room with only his bitterness to stew on and his reflection to talk to made him antsy. He's stir crazed and it shows as he bounds up a staircase at the end of a hallway.

I knew it was a basement! America thinks with triumph, though there's nothing really triumphant about this situation.

"Do not get ahead of yourself," England chastises, coming up beside America to open the door at the top of the wooden staircase. When he opens the door America takes note that it's a lot cooler. Probably has something to do with the fact that he's been strapped to a radiator for the equivalent of a weekend.

It's definitely not England's house. He's been there enough times to know the Victorian layout and foo-foo furniture with plastic on it. This looks like a house he would have. Well, it's a lot smaller than something he would have, but it looks simple like he's used to.

They're in some sort of living room. It's small and dark, only lit up by the lamp on a coffee table in the corner. Everything is in a grayscale motif, which makes it look that much more like the prison that America knows it to be. It's simple. It's hell.

"I like it," he says, elbowing England in the side like he's done well. England doesn't react aside from a thoughtful hum in the back of his throat.

"Where are we, anyway?"

England motions to the window at the front of the room. "See for yourself."

America wastes no time, practically running to it in his haste. What he sees makes his stomach drop and his mouth go dry. There's nothing. It's just a bunch of dreary fields of grass being soaked by the endless stream of rain from the sky. It's dark outside and it isn't even night.

On the very edge of the field he sees dark blurs of what could possibly be trees, jagged and sharp. It's a dull wasteland drowning in rain.

His fingers curl tightly over the windowsill. This is not what he was expecting. How is he supposed to escape with nowhere to escape to?

"Horrid, isn't it?" England voice mulls, surprising America as the smaller man comes up beside him. His eyes watch the downpour carefully. "Most people would think so, anyhow. I disagree. It has a certain . . . wretched appeal. Just a land that's misunderstood."

America doesn't know which is worse: the view or England's words. He chooses not to think about it.

"It can't be that bad. Someone obviously liked it enough to build a house out here," America jokes, putting his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling. England cocks his head at him. An uncomfortable bubble of laughter comes shooting out of America's throat. "How far are we from a town? What if we get flooded in?"

It's not like they can be completely off the grid. There's always a town somewhere. Always people to call out to for help.

"I have everything covered," England assures, moving away from the window and out of America's view. His sidestep of the question has America's stomach churning.

"What, you just give a grocery store a ring and they deliver our food? England, if you're gonna protect me, you have to think everything through," he says, turning around to see England turning on another lamp at a different edge of the room.

With his back to him, he doesn't notice America picking up the mug on the coffee table and hiding it behind his back. It's heavy enough to give him some time. America doesn't want to hurt England, but clearly that's what it's come down to. Just enough to startle him.

England may be smaller and have less muscle mass than America, but he is quicker, and a far cry from weak. America knows that from experience. Even after hitting him in the stomach when realizing what he'd done, England had only stumbled temporarily before taking America off-guard with his agility and pinning him to the bed long enough to hook his wrist up. After that he'd stayed out of reach.

Something's gotta be past those trees. I'll make it there and figure something out. Anything's better than staying cooped up here.

"I have. Don't worry, lad. We'll be fine."

America inches slowly closer, watching as England busies himself with a bookshelf. Just one hit and he will take a small nap. That's all.

"How can you be so sure?"

America gulps compulsively, flexing his fingers over the handle of the mug. He's right behind him now, taking this opportunity as if it's the only one he'll get.

"Because," England mutters, pausing long enough to have the world slow down before a blinding pain erupts from his abdomen and his vision goes white. White hot – almost golden – heat encompasses the gray of the room and America is on his back on the wood floor, panting and groaning.

England's shoes come into focus when he grits his teeth and tastes blood in his mouth, his muscles spasming painfully under his skin. He drops the mug and watches as England lightly kicks it away.

"I am not an idiot," he finishes, looking down his nose unsympathetically at the blonde flopping at his feet. He holds up a small object in his hand, giving the switch a quick flick so it spits a splash of light from its spout. The Taser hisses threateningly before England soothes it with the off switch.

"Please do not take me for a fool, America. That's rather insulting," England sighs, kneeling beside his twitching ward. America struggles to breathe properly, surfing through wave after wave of the electricity's effects. He cards his fingers through his bangs, brushing them back from America's sweating face. "I'm just trying to look out for you and you make it so difficult."

America does his best to glare, but he has a feeling it's not as powerful as he'd like it to be when England only looks disappointed at him.

"Asking all those questions at once gave you away," England elaborates when America's jaw goes flapping in an attempt to ask how he knew. "That, and I saw your reflection in the window glass," England murmurs, halting his hand's ministrations from America's head. "You looked hopeless. Is the thought of being with me out here so terrible?" he asks, frowning.

America twitches a few times, his joints locking up painfully before he manages a nod.

England simply stares before silently getting to his feet and walking out of view. "I see."

After a painful drag down the stairs, America is put back into his makeshift room, a glass of water and painkillers waiting for him on his bedside table.

He isn't handcuffed anymore. Or at the moment, at least.

America is angrier than ever, pacing the floor and climbing the walls. His clothes haven't been changed in nearly a week, and he is starting to smell like something had died. After England's trigger happy encounter the other day, America figures he won't be let out of his room for the foreseeable future. Best to become familiar with his surroundings in the meantime.

There isn't anything particularly thrilling about the bed, and the knickknacks on the dresser are somewhat eerie. Painted wooden figures and toys and a music box. They look old, and when America opens the box, a lullaby comes out – one that he recognizes England singing to him as a child.

He immediately shuts it.

In the dresser are outfits that are his size. They are all new judging by the tags on them, and they look like things he would wear when he's not at work. America shuts the drawers with a huff and stands up. When he sees his reflection in the vanity mirror, he grimaces, pulling at his greasy hair. He needs a shower.

His eyes immediately dart to the door he's been curious about on the opposite wall. Carefully and cautiously, he slowly opens it. The room is dark, but when he finds the light switch on the wall and flicks it on, he's elated to see it isn't some weird torture room or a crawl space with pictures of him plastered to the walls, like something a stalker would have.

There's a bathtub and a sink and –

America gasps audibly and runs forward. A window! He grabs the curtains and roughly pulls them apart, eager to see the outside world again, even if it is just an eternity of rain. His shoulders slump at the sight of his own reflection staring back at him. Just another mirror.

His bedroom sucks.

Well, at least he can get clean. That's a start.

Unfortunately, England doesn't trust him with locks either, so America takes the world's fastest shower, glancing around the shower curtain every thirty seconds to see if the door is still closed. He's clean and smelling nice after fifteen minutes, thankful for the smallest mercies.

When he opens the door to let the steam out, there's a tray by his bed with biscuits and eggs on it. America bristles, eyeing the door with a jolt. Maybe England heard the shower and took that as his queue to safely place his breakfast inside.

The idea of that makes America's skin crawl as he approaches the bed. There's a note on the tray in neat cursive.

If you've calmed down, I would like to have dinner with you tonight.

England.

America crunches the paper in his hand and chucks it at the door. Like he wants to have dinner with England. Like he wants to even look at him right now.

But as he eats his breakfast sitting Indian style on his mattress, America takes the time to consider his options. He'll have more chances to figure this situation out the more exposure he gets to England. And like it or not, understanding his unwarranted feelings towards America is his best shot.

Like it or not, he'll have to sit down and talk with him.