American in America
By: Ferrero13

America liked to travel by commercial airliners partly because other countries (England in particular) had an annoying tendency to pounce at every opportunity to nag at him about his carbon footprint. Another reason for doing so was to be an average American. The entire point to his existence was to personify his people, which would be difficult if he only deigned to be chaperoned around his country in a private jet.

He typically enjoyed being one of his own people, but deeply regretted his decision to decommission the jet whenever he had to receive calls from his government mid-flight. He often declined them, but when the President himself had tried to reach him four times throughout an hour-long night flight from Boston, he knew something was up.

America practically raced for the exit to escape the crowd of passengers slowly removing their hand carry bags from the overhead compartments. Once alone in the jet bridge, America immediately fielded a call to his boss. The dial tone rang only once before the call was picked up.

"Hey, sorry about earlier; I was mid-flight," America apologised sheepishly. "Too many people in the cabin with me, and reception was touch and go until I got off the plane."

"Understandable. I'm really sorry for pushing the meeting a day ahead of schedule but we need you here stat."

"What's wrong?" America asked, quickening his pace. The security checkpoint was just in sight.

"We've uncovered some conflicting information collected for today during the pre-meeting review. We'd like your input before proceeding since we can't see eye to eye." 'With the Republicans' was left unsaid.

America broke into a run, phone jumping against his ear with each step. "Don't sweat it, Barack. I'm at Washington Dulles now, so if you'd just give me a couple of minutes I'll have Robert drive me over to the White House straight away and we can set up a conference call on the way."

"Yes, thank you. I will meanwhile attempt to organise the men on my side into some semblance of order. I can't make you any promises on that though, America."

The nation snickered. "Yeah, I get that." His expression promptly turned stormy when he remembered how much of a fiscal mess they'd gotten into when Congress refused to budge. "We'll really have to do something about the whole system—the Senate-Congress bipartisan politicking must be stopped."

"Speaking of elephants in the room…"

"Ha ha, Barack," America said drolly. "But seriously, we're stagnating. If we want things to change we can't have a Senate or Congress dominated by different parties. The only problem is nobody gets to be the POTUS for longer than two terms, and that's not long enough to push for a reform."

"I know. We all know. That's why it's so hard because both parties want to come out top."

"With you already almost halfway through your second term there isn't much that can be done unless you want to bomb your successor's chances of—"

"Hey! You!" A gruff voice shouted in the distance. America ignored it, choosing instead to focus on his conversation with his head of state.

"—being elected. But who are we kidding, it's past time for the Republicans—"

"Kid! Stop there! Put your hands up!" The voice was becoming louder at an alarming rate, but surely it couldn't mean him, the most American American to ever American, so America just kept talking.

"—to take office soon. Huh? What?" America felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and, turning his head, found himself eyeball to eyeball with a red-faced security personnel glaring at him with all the intensity of a Fourth of July fireworks display. The grim glare on the other man's face alerted America to the trouble he was in. Completely blindsided, America cursed with reflex honed from years under the guardianship of a particularly foul-mouthed Englishman, "Oh, fuck, in my own country?!"

England would be thoroughly disappointed with his uncreative choice of words, but America couldn't care less at the moment, because the burly officer had formed a tight grip around his wrist and was telling him to get off the phone.

"Talk to you later, Barack. It seems I've hit a snag at airport security."

America heard his boss sigh, sounding remarkably unsurprised, "You know better than to say things like 'bomb' in our airports, America, especially after 9/11."

"Well yeah, now I do. Thanks for the reminder," America huffed, and then disconnected the call. He held back a scowl as the officer indicated for him to surrender his phone for security check.

The officer tugged him roughly through a nondescript door in the opposite direction of the arrival hall, where a couple of other officers were waiting for him. They were clearly from the TSA and presumably had no intention of hiding the fact given the glaring obvious letters embroidered on their epaulets. For the first time in his immortal life America lamented his people's overzealous need for security. The officer who had brought him in then left with one of the TSA agents through a side door. America assumed that the agents were being briefed on his accosting.

The room was white, sparsely furnished with yet more white objects, and lit harshly by one too many fluorescent tubes. A table sat prominently in the centre with two uncomfortable-looking foldable chairs on either side. Against a wall was an even more unwelcoming bedframe (conspicuously missing a mattress) seemingly thrown in as an afterthought next to a large machine which America surmised was a lie detector. He scoffed at the badly concealed one-way mirror that took up practically the whole wall opposite the bed.

He was roughly pushed into one of the chairs and told in no uncertain terms by the remaining TSA agent to take off his jacket and empty every single one of his pockets. Aware of how his country was known for its unforgivingly thorough security checks for singled-out individuals, America complied without shooting his mouth of like he usually would've.

He gingerly laid his bomber jacket on the table, silently pleading that the TSA agents wouldn't be too rough with it. It had been with him since World War II, after all, and he'd be damned if he lost it because of some off handed comment he really shouldn't have made in his own airport. He fished his wallet out from his back pocket, along with a half-finished packet of gum from one of the front ones, and placed them on the table as well. Following that, he turned out his pockets to show that no, there was nothing left in them.

The TSA agent stalked eerily quietly toward him, picking up his wallet first. His driver's licence was slipped out of it and held up for inspection.

"Your name is Alfred F. Jones?"

"Yes, ma'am," America said, his army training kicking in when faced with a voice saturated with authority.

"And you were born nineteen years ago in New England on the fourth of July?"

"That is correct, ma'am." It was probably unusual for people to relax in the presence of military structure, but America was just so much more comfortable with familiar routine than being caged like a mouse in his own goddamn country.

"Your licence, however, was issued in Washington."

"That is also correct, ma'am."

"Tell me more about the activities you have planned for your stay here in DC or Virginia."

"Well, I was about to head home in DC for a hot shower when a fine gentleman in uniform brought me here," Alfred said carefully.

"And what were you doing in…Boston?" the TSA agent continued after removing his boarding pass from his wallet. A couple of dollar bills fluttered to the table.

"I was on a business trip, just chatting with some partners."

"I see. Would anyone be able to verify your presence at any business events?"

America swallowed thickly. This wasn't going to go well, especially if his licence said he was only nineteen. "Mayor Marty Walsh was with me yesterday afternoon, and His Excellency Deval Patrick accompanied me the whole of the day before. For the two days before that I sat in meetings with the Boston council and the Massachusetts government." After speaking, he decided that he sounded even more suspicious than he did before he opened his mouth, and realised that any other excuse would've been less ridiculous than the truth.

Ah, hindsight. What an incredibly useless thing to possess.

The TSA agent rightfully failed to believe him, and did not even bother to mask her disbelief. "Am I to assume that you're here to pay the President a visit?"

"Yes, exactly!" America exclaimed, before shutting up when the agent gave him a stink eye.

"Mr. Jones, I hope you realise how farfetched your answers have been so far," she said, unimpressed.

America groaned. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for it to turn out like this. Is it too late to exercise my right as a citizen to have an attorney present for any further questioning? I promise I'm totally not here to stage a coup d'etat. I don't even have a gun on me, see?"

The agent ignored him and bulldozed on. "Do you have any luggage, Mr. Jones?"

"Um, no." America fidgeted uncomfortably. Was this how his own citizens were treated? It was all right if they interrogated him because he was pretty sure his boss would intervene before anybody got hurt, but what about the average Joe who earned an average salary and had a family of five to feed? It was particularly disorienting to discover first-hand that his interrogators didn't care so much for his answer but wanted a confession. Anything to have him convicted, it was starting to seem.

"Why is that?"

"I have an apartment in Boston and another in DC, so there's really nothing I need to bring with me when I travel except for my essentials." He also had a sprawling estate in Texas and an underground bunker in Nevada, as well as innumerable other residences peppered all over the States.

"Do you live with your parents, Mr. Jones?"

"I don't have parents."

"My condolences," the TSA agent said without sounding particularly condolent. "Who is responsible for the upkeep and rent of your two residences?"

"I pay for them myself." America was really starting to see his own grave taking shape. He would lie if he weren't so bad at it—England often teased that his eyes twitched when he fibbed.

At this point, the TSA agent that had left earlier with the officer returned. He approached America, eyes hooded behind a pair of sunglasses that America could really see someone needing with the way glaring fluorescent light was bouncing off all the white surfaces in the room. He exchanged a few hushed words with the other agent.

When they were done conversing, they turned back to him with eerie synchrony.

"Who is your next of kin?"

"My brother Matthew. He's Canadian, though." One of the agents' eyebrows lifted in scepticism.

"Would he be able to verify your activities in Boston and future plans here if we placed a call to him?"

"Don't you need his number for that?"

"Will you give it to us?"

"Do you realise I am absolutely within my rights to say no?"

"It may be so, but I would advise you against. The passcode to your phone, if you please."

America started to grow frustrated with his people. "Look, I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing but this is a grievous breach of privacy. I can even quote the paragraph on your website that states that you can't ask for my passwords. Can't I just give you his number? I have sensitive information in there."

"Related, perhaps, to a hijacking?"

"What? No!" America denied, outraged. "Are you kidding me? Do I look like a menace to the motherland to you?" He gestured wildly at his shirt, which declared very boldly that he loved New York. The TSA agents were incredibly unmoved by his actions, and, yeah, okay, if they accepted a shirt as evidence of loyalty he would have Barack fire them from here to the moon in a heartbeat for absolute incompetency, but that still did not excuse their blatant ignorance of his rights as an American citizen. "Fine, if that's how you want to play it, it's 8-7-8-5. I expect that none of the documents on my phone will be seen by anyone other than the two of you, because, god help me, if any of it leaks out I will have homeland security hunt the two of you down."

The agents, looking entirely too unaffected by his threat, appeared to scroll through a long list before finding Canada's name. America wondered if he needed to include a compulsory course in using a search bar for TSA trainees.

They set the phone on the table, showing him Canada's contact details, and asked, "Is this your brother? Matthew Williams?"

"Yes," America said steely. Let them tell him how his family members should be named and they'd learn, very intimately, how America earned his General rank in the Air Force.

They brushed off his glare and hit the call button.

A minute later, in an absolutely anticlimactic turn of events, the call was directed to voicemail. Canada's quiet voice apologised from his phone's speaker, "You have reached the voicemail of Matthew Williams. I'm sorry that I am unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message, and I will get back to you as soon as I can." The agents ended the call before Canada's final 'sorry'.

They toggled back to his home screen, and pointed to his wallpaper, demanding, "Who is this man?"

America didn't need to look to know who they were talking about. The photo had been taken just over a month ago in England, with typical London weather painting the sky a dreary grey as cold rain drenched them both. Despite the bleakness of the downpour, America had successfully convinced England to smile for a photo with the Elizabeth Tower rising like a spire in the background. He remembered fumbling with the umbrella and his phone until England took pity on him and relieved him of the umbrella's handle. Even though they were both wet and practically shivering by that point, the smiles that stretched on their faces as they pressed up next to each other in the photo were as real as the fingers that tangled together.

"That's Arthur. He's my partner." America sat back and watched each TSA agent with narrowed eyes, daring them to call either of them any of the numerous slurs people have come up for 'their kind'. It was difficult to tell for sure, but America was pretty certain that the woman gave him a barely there sneer.

The female agent nodded curtly, and proceeded to pull up his contact list. "Is this him?"

"Yes, ma'am."

They placed his phone back down on the table and dialled again.

This time, the call was picked up. The Brit on the other end of the line was clearly not pleased with its timing.

"Bloody hell, America. This had better be good. It's two in the fucking morning." England's voice was rough with sleep, which would've been incredibly attractive if America wasn't being interrogated by his own people.

"Mr. Kirkland?" the female agent said.

A loud crash could be heard from the phone. When England's voice returned, it was sharp, alert, and positively chilling. "Who is this? How did you get hold of this phone?"

"I am an agent from the Transport Security Administration, and I have the owner of this phone in custody at Washington Dulles Airport."

There was silence for a moment. "Is that an agency in the United States?"

"Yes."

More silence. Then England let out a sigh that was simultaneously amused and exasperated, "Only you, Alfred. What has he done this time?"

The male agent took over, "We have reason to believe that he is a threat to national—"

"No, no. I meant exactly what I said. What has he done this time? I don't want any of your speculations about what his intentions are, because I can assure you that he is the last person you'll ever have to worry about if your endgame is national security. If you told me he was a menace on the road I would believe you because god knows how many times he's beaten the red light in London, but that is quite another matter altogether." America could picture in his mind England pacing in his room, half-dressed in his ugly striped cotton pyjamas and running a hand through his already messy hair. His eyelids would be drooping with sleep, but his eyes would be bright and vividly acid green.

"As we've said, Mr. Jones is—"

"Look, I get it. He ran his mouth off and now you've got him detained. Before you ask, he had some meetings in Boston with its mayor and the governor of Massachusetts, and needs to be at the White House tomorrow for another meeting. His plans for tonight before being accosted involved a hot shower, two cups of bedtime coffee and a long, deep sleep. Alfred, I'll place a call through to your boss to let him know you've been stupid again so he can come and collect your sorry arse from your own bleeding airport."

America took the opportunity to speak when the two agents failed to respond. "He already knows. I was on the phone with him when this happened."

"All right, you know what? I'll fly there myself. If he's contacting you so late at night there must be trouble at the White House. I doubt he'll be able to settle your situation any sooner than I can. Agents, please keep this idiot warm and fed for the next eight hours; I will be with you shortly to negotiate his release. Alfred, you are paying for my fuel expenses." England's no nonsense, all business tone managed to keep the TSA agents silent for longer than they were probably used to when speaking to a loved one of someone under their 'care'. America liked to think that this was the first time anybody's contact person had ever been bold enough to order them around.

"Artie, you're the best!"

"Yes, fine, thank you, Alfred. What's on the agenda for the meeting you were supposed to have tomorrow?"

"Um, that's sensitive information."

"I'm not asking you to give me details, you twat! Domestic or international?"

"International."

"Environmental, fiscal, aid, or starting another war in the Middle East?"

"You really know how to flatter a country, Arthur," America said, slightly miffed. "Environmental. We're trying to come up with new protocol to reduce our reliance on overseas fossil fuel sources."

"I take homeland security's not involved in this meeting, then. I'll give them a ring. In the meantime, please just hand over your Common Access Card. They've really got no means to verify your identity unless they check your military database, and I really don't think your rank will be much of a surprise after everything you've probably already said."

By this point, the two TSA agents had given up any appearance of asserting control over the conversation and were allowing it to run its natural course, each silently hoping that this Alfred F. Jones would slip up and reveal something about himself.

"That'll be even worse! They're gonna accuse me of usurping some poor soul's identity!"

"For goodness' sake you're so ruddy paranoid about your military that your CAC actually has too many redundant security fail-safes! They can very well just pick any of them and cross reference with the existing database, you absolute buffoon! They probably already think all your documents were faked anyway with the way you've surely gone on about your Boston meetings," England sounded immensely ticked off. "Unless, of course, you think your security personnel have been trained so poorly that they don't recognise the existence of information databases, in which case you should take a leaf out of my SAS' considerably superior book."

"Of course not! I'll have you know that we're on the cutting edge of technology!" America protested, cycling through the motions of an old married couple. As usual.

"Then act like it. And stop distracting me. I need to arrange my flight and I can't very well do that if you're hogging my phone. I'll see you in a few hours." There was a pause, as if some words were caught in England's throat. Then, in a voice so quiet America almost missed, England hastily whispered, "Love you."

"Love you too, Arthur," America said, smiling dopily. He could almost hear England blush furiously through the phone before the line went flat.

He sat in silence with the agents, eyes still on his phone.

"Your CAC if you please, Mr. Jones."

"No I won't please. Am not pleased. It's not my pleasure. I mean—ugh, why is English so stupid?" America lamented, slightly frustrated. "Would you pass me my wallet? It's a bit hard to reach."

The female agent obliged wordlessly. He pried one of his lesser used pockets apart and stuck a finger in to slide his military ID out, which was made somewhat difficult by the thickness of his fingers and England's insistence on him using the slim as fuck wallet he'd bought in some little known town in England that wasn't even on the map.

As he worked his card out, the TSA agents started to question him again. "How long have you been intimate with Mr. Kirkland?"

"A couple of years. I'm not exactly sure—it's been a while," America replied distantly. And it had been a while. It was almost exactly seventy years since they'd sat shoulder to shoulder in a muddy trench praying for the war to end, hands gripping each other so hard as if it could shield them from the bloodshed. England, especially, had been so thin, so drained, and so burnt in so many places by then from the blitzing and how long his country had been involved in the war effort. America had to check his pulse every few hours to reassure himself that England hadn't yet succumbed to the war. It had been out of desperation and fear that tomorrow might never come that he pressed his chapped lips to England's, cheeks damp from crying, but it was love that held them together for the seventy years after that.

"Is Mr. Kirkland a citizen of the United States of America?"

America couldn't hold back a snort. England? His citizen? France would sooner be celibate. "No, no. Not at all. He's the most British grump you'll ever find; drinks tea with his pinkie sticking out and all that. You can practically hear the 'u's when he speaks."

"What is Mr. Kirkland's occupation?"

"He works for the British government," America said, all the while thinking that England practically was the British government with the way he seemed to be working harder than his own Prime Minister. "He used to be in the Royal Navy for a while, actually, but he decided to suspend his service until wartime so he can focus on politics."

"Do you realise what a precarious situation you are in? A US citizen apparently working in the government and in a relationship with a British government official is in the perfect position to double cross both countries, or serve as a spy to either."

"Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

"I'm merely stating the facts."

"No, you're not. You've taken the facts and twisted them to fit an agenda you think I have."

"Might I remind you, Mr. Jones, that you are being held on grounds of suspected terrorist activity?" the Agent said harshly.

"You may, but it doesn't mean anything to me," America said, suffusing his words with authority honed from ordering soldiers around for decades. He gave his CAC card one last hard tug, managed to finally wriggle it free from his wallet, and then surrendered it to the agents before replacing his wallet on the table.

He could tell the exact moment they'd read it by observing their faces. It wasn't something he could fault them for, really. A General-ranked nineteen-year-old in the US Air Force with a pay grade of O-10 would surely raise some eyebrows anywhere, and that wasn't even mentioning the fact that every other identification number on the back of the card was just a string of zeroes, which, yeah, really wasn't helping to convince anybody of its authenticity.

The TSA agents were quick to pull out their walkie talkies.

America waited some more as the TSA personnel barked into the communicator to 'double up' and 'make sure the computer has a secure connection to the military database network'. He surprised himself by not being remotely offended that they didn't believe in the invincibility of the CAC's resistance to fraud and tampering.

A few long minutes passed in which the three of them waited tensely for something to happen.

Finally, a group of yet more agents entered theroom carrying what appeared to be a ludicrously bulky laptop equipped with some peripheral accessories. Each of the new arrivals were armed to the teeth with firearms and body armour, which America personally thought was overkill.

His CAC was handed over to be inserted into the card reader, following which a gravelly voice from one of the armed agents instructed him to give up his PIN. America refused. His people's inability to grasp that privacy was a thing was starting to irk him.

"Turn the computer over and I'll type it in. I'm not telling you my PIN because it's supposed to be a fucking security fail-safe and therefore private, not that you guys know what that word even means," America insisted.

The agents seemed to consider his proposal before relenting. He quickly keyed in his code and returned the machine to the agents, whereupon they flocked to it like vultures to a carcass to see if the chip would authenticate his identity. It did, of course, because who do you think wrote that script anyway? America had encoded at least ten different ways to verify anybody's card as an extra precaution and he would gladly show these agents exactly how legitimate he was by passing all those security checks. (And, okay, he was now beginning to see why England called him paranoid, but America operated on the firm belief that it was far better to be safe than sorry.)

The original unarmed TSA agents left the room speaking rapidly but quietly to each other.

"General Jones," one of the remaining agents said, tone treading the fine line between wary and patronising, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" America imagined that behind the one-way visor the agent was giving him a look that said 'You are a waste of my time, and there's a television show I'd much rather be watching'.

"I'm guessing I'm here because I said 'bomb' in the hearing range of a security officer. You know, I think you guys know better than me about why I'm here. No one's given me any explicit reason for my detainment at all and it's already been—," America glanced at his watch, "—almost two hours since I was first accosted."

"As an employee of the Department of Defence, you should be aware of what not to say in an airport."

"I'm really sorry. As my partner's said earlier, I do tend to 'run my mouth off'. Now that everything has been cleared up, am I free go?"

"I'm afraid that before we release you we must verify the legitimacy of your service details. You understand, of course, that not many at your age have credentials as…noteworthy as yours. Please give us time to do the necessary crosschecking."

America was quite certain that no crosschecking would be happening in the near future. In fact, the TSA agents had probably already pulled up his criminal records (perfectly pristine, mind you) and drafted up a preliminary arrest warrant in order to keep him detained for as long as they deemed fit. The freedom he gave his TSA agents was quickly becoming highly inconvenient.

They took fingerprints from each and every one of his fingers and toes, which left his toes feeling very cold once they were done, and had him sign his name twice.

Sensing that there was nothing much he could do until England came or someone far higher up the chain of command noticed that their country's personification was all of a sudden wanted for fraud, forgery, and potentially endangering American citizens (which was a preposterous idea), America slouched further in his chair and said a little sluggishly, "If you're done with the interrogation, can I nap a bit there? I'm dog tired." He nodded toward the sorry-looking excuse for a sleeping pallet.

"We're not done with you yet."

"When are you ever," America deadpanned unhelpfully.

"Watch your attitude, kid."

America resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was centuries older than anyone alive—if anyone here was a 'kid', it definitely wasn't him. "Okay, fine. Sorry about my attitude. But seriously, I'm dead beat. Even that nasty pallet there is starting to look inviting."

The TSA agents gathered to quietly discuss something for a few long moments. Then, when they finally broke apart, one of them said, "We will allow you four hours of rest and pick up where we left off afterwards. Your belongings will be removed from the room in the meantime."

America cheered a silent hallelujah in his head. "Thanks. You know where to find me when you need me." He gave them a sloppy two-fingered salute before stalking over to the pallet and collapsing on it in a shapeless heap of exhausted American.

The next four hours were filled with blessed darkness as half the lights were turned off in a unexpected show of kindness, and the only sound in the room was the quiet breathing of himself and the agent they left in the room with him. He dreamt that England was right next to him with his dog tags hooked around his fingers, using them to pull him down into a lazy kiss. It was sunny for once outside England's cottage in the countryside.

Just as England was about to curl his arm around his waist, America was rudely startled into wakefulness by the sound of somebody yelling in his ear. "Get up, General Jones! Sleep time is over!"

America decided that he hated his own TSA passionately for their impeccable timing.

"All right, all right! Stop it! Jeez, I was having an awesome dream until you woke me up." He straightened his glasses so they weren't tipped to one side like they usually were if he slept with them on. It was probably a little bit sad that he missed having England chide him for his sleeping habits and correcting his glasses for him, fingers gentle even as his tone was biting.

With much difficulty, America dragged his tired body to the chair he'd been sitting in not four hours ago. The male TSA agent from before had returned with two other armed agents along with his phone, wallet, and jacket.

"So, tell us when you enlisted in the military."

"Wow, you don't give a guy a break, do you? That's actually classified information." He noticed that the agents seemed overwhelmingly underwhelmed. "I'm not sure if you've noticed yet, but a lot of my file needs high level clearance. I really can't say any more about this without giving away state secrets." He yawned, images of England smiling flashing behind his lids for the second they were shut. "But I can tell you why I joined, though, if you're interested, but it's not very interesting."

"Please do."

America shrugged. "I did it for pretty much the same reason anyone else did; I wanted to liberate the American people from the tyranny of overseas powers, especially those of monarchy. I wanted to protect the people from the injustice of subjugation. So on and so forth."

"Monarchy?"

"Oops, did I say monarchy? I meant communism," America quickly tried to cover up. Communism hadn't been much of a thing yet in the eighteenth century, although it had now eclipsed monarchy in prominence, America reminded himself. "To be fair, though, there're still a lot of dictatorial monarchies."

Stoic looks to have won the expression of the year award amongst TSA agents by a fair margin.

The unarmed agent stepped forward, "You mentioned a brother before the break. What does Matthew Williams do?"

"Mattie's a government official like Arthur." America glanced at the armed agents. "Arthur's my partner, in case you weren't briefed on what happened earlier. My brother's not involved in the military in any capacity, but he does play a mean game of hockey. He sometimes substitutes for players in the Olympics."

"You seem very well connected."

"Well, yeah. My primary employer happens to be the government, you know?"

"Enough of your cheek, boy."

"General."

"What?"

"My title is General. I'm sure it states that very clearly in my military profile, sir," America repeated stonily.

"I have also deduced that our network has been hacked. I don't know how you did it, kid, but we're going to find out whether you cooperate or not."

"I get that you don't believe anything I say, which is understandable, but until you have proof that my profile's been tampered with I'd appreciate if you addressed me by my title. I assure you that I am far from inexperienced, and can immobilise you in under five seconds."

America barely finished speaking when a rendition of 'God Save the Queen' (complete with electric guitar solos and heavy drumbeats) started playing loudly from the pocket of one of the agent, who fumbled to take America's phone out. He slammed it on the table in plain sight of everybody, revealing that an 'Arthur Kirkland 3' was trying to get in touch. At a nod from the unarmed agent, he accepted the call.

"Am I speaking with an agent from the United States Transport Security Administration?"

"Yes, sir, you are."

"Excellent. I have contacted the U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security, Jeh Johnson, regarding Alfred F. Jones' detainment. As it is in the dead of night, the processing of documents to nullify all warrants currently placed on Alfred will take some time." Even though England's voice was tinny and cracking from terrible reception mid-flight, the authority he commanded by his words alone was palpable. "In addition, the Secretary of Defence, Chuck Hagel, has been alerted that one of his Generals is currently under the custody of the TSA, and is also currently taking steps to ensure Alfred's release."

"Hold on, sir, exactly how closely do you work with the United States government—," the agent started, but was cut off by England's continued tirade. In fact, it appeared to America that England had hardly even noticed that someone was speaking to him.

"I have neglected to speak with President Obama as he is already aware of Alfred's predicament. I understand how difficult it is to trust an electronic document stating that no part of Alfred's military profile has been tampered with, so you are not expected to release him upon receipt of any written orders. Depending on how quickly any one of the abovementioned men can arrive at the airport to confirm his release in person, please be prepared to keep Alfred in custody for anywhere between another hour to a week. I will personally accompany the first man able to make his way down there. Do you have any questions?"

"How are you able to contact these men?"

"I not only serve the British government, but also frequently represent the United Kingdom at international summits. You will find that sitting in on UN meetings serves as an exceptional networking platform." England snarked, short and irritated. "Was that all you wanted to know? If that's the case, please allow me to speak with Alfred."

The agent formed a distinctly insulted expression before gesturing to America as if to say 'go ahead'.

"Hey, Artie."

"Hey yourself," England grumbled. "I'm in a tin can hurtling through the atmosphere near the speed of sound when I should be in my bed sleeping. I can't imagine how you're still so bloody chipper."

"Sorry about that," America said guiltily. "Listen, since you're coming over anyway, whaddya say to a dinner with Barack after tomorrow's meeting? As a thank you."

"I'd rather have a lie in, if you don't mind." America realised that England did sound very tired. His consonants were slurring together, and even his vowels were starting to become indistinguishable from each other. "I'll even let you order pizza and drink from the bottle. Besides, I'm sure Barack would rather we refrain from interrupting dinner with his family."

"That's true," America agreed. "Will your boss be all right with you disappearing on him so suddenly?"

"David's a big boy—I'm sure he can take care of himself for a few days before he starts cursing my existence. Or lack thereof, come to that," England hummed idly.

"If you say so. Why don't you catch yourself some shut eye while you still can? I'm sure there'll be a lot of paperwork to deal with once you get here."

"Are you trying to tell me to shut up, brat?"

"What? No, no. You just really sound like you need some rest. I'm really sorry that you had to clean up after me, okay? Please, just…just take care of yourself, sweetheart."

England snorted. "Ha. Endearments. Our honeymoon phase ended shortly after Nagasaki, Alfred." England's tone was curt, but America knew him well enough to know that he was smiling. The first of many V-E Days was one of the happiest days of his life. Little could compare with knowing that England would not wake up the next day with another gaping wound in his side or a heartache that would not go away. V-J Day followed soon after, which opened up a whole torrent of paperwork that kept them apart for nearly half a year, at which point the honeymoon officially came to an abrupt end.

"That doesn't change what you are to me, Arthur. Go to sleep. I'll see you in a few hours. Sweet dreams."

"I've only got an hour left to my flight, Alfred."

"Shush. Sleep tight."

"Yes, yes, love, I will. Try not to do anything too stupid while I'm not there to stop you," England said, and hung up. America mused that England must be very out of sorts if he was throwing 'love' around so casually.

"How sweet," the agent commented blithely as he swiped the phone off the table and swiped through it. "Tell me, boy, how is it that you apparently have the President's cell number?"

"I've already told you, I work with the government! Mr. Obama and I are tight."

"Tight enough that he will be able to vouch for you if I call him now?"

"You can try, but I think he's busy."

They tried anyway. As it was his personal cell number, America wasn't surprised when the call went straight to voicemail, and an unmistakable voice said, "This is Barack Obama. If your call is work-related, please dial my other number. Otherwise, I will be in touch shortly." America could make out the sounds of his daughters giggling over one thing or another in the background and Michelle trying to calm them down.

"I did say this would happen," America told the agents, shrugging. "Besides, it's past midnight. I don't think many of my local contacts are still awake unless they're arguing over politics in the White House."

The agents fell silent as they always did when they couldn't think of a follow up question. In the stillness, America thought of how things were proceeding at the White House, wondering if they'd managed to sort out their data without him as an impartial mediator to give the final word.

While not many knew of his nation status, high level officials were almost always included in the fold as an initiation rite so that things like being detained in his own fucking airport could be resolved quickly, preferably within a day or two and without external help (exhibition A, England, who was on a plane to sort out his crap for him). He often attended White House meetings as a special 'civilian guest', which was a bullshit term made up long ago to give teenage America an excuse to sit in on conferences about himself.

Sometimes, just sometimes, America envied England. He looked young, obviously, and although appearing to be in one's early twenties was only barely believable for someone with an undisclosed high position in the British government, it was far better than claiming to be politically active while apparently under the legal drinking age in the States. America hated that his body had yet to grow up. (England didn't seem to mind as much, though—in fact, he tended to complain that America grew too much too quickly.)

"You mentioned that your brother is Canadian."

"Yep," America confirmed, entirely unfazed by the complete change in topic.

"How is it that the two of you have different nationalities?"

"We were just born in different countries, and we never got round to changing his." A half-truth.

"Why is that?"

"Look, neither of us actually remembers our parents. For all intents and purposes, we don't have them. By the time we started remembering things we were adopted by different people who didn't care if we were American or Canadian, and just rolled with it. Mattie's guardian ceded him to mine and that's more or less how we met again."

"Tell me about your guardian."

"He was a very politically active Englishman," America said, silently adding 'who also happens to be my partner, which I'll grant you is a little weird but hey, I'm older than your grandfather, so that probably evens out the weirdness.' "A long time ago, he used to tell us stories about how he sailed the seven seas on a pirate ship and plundered Spanish booty for the Queen, but he also knitted and crocheted and gardened so much that we had a hard time believing it."

"You claim to be 'politically active' too. Was he your inspiration?" the agent asked, somewhat sarcastically.

"Not really. You could actually say that my adoption was because of politics. We both knew I'd enter the scene one day. Mattie too." England probably wouldn't have given him any time of day if he'd just been an ordinary peasant boy born to the early settlers. He would also be dead by now, if he were, and while that would have spared him this rather tedious interrogation, he rather enjoyed sleepy rainy days curled up in bed with England.

"Oh? How did anyone figure that out? Your eventually political entanglement, that is."

"Well, I had quite a knack for people skills. It doesn't seem to be doing me a whit of good when I most need it, though," America looked pointedly at the TSA agents.

As he expected, the agents ignored him. "Please elaborate on the nature of your guardian's work."

America's brows furrowed. "I don't remember much. He didn't really work from home—preferred to argue face to face with his opponents and all that. He's a very confrontational man."

"I noticed you described him in past tense."

"Yeah, well, I…fought him for independence, in a manner of speaking. Liberty and all that jazz, you know? The American archetype," America said wryly. It was much more than a fight. Both of them had gone down crying, although the rain hid the worst of it. England's eyes had been completely bloodshot. America wondered how many nights he'd spent awake before their final confrontation where England finally gave up, collapsed on the mud, having given up his pride and dignity. It was a horrible memory.

"Are you still in contact?"

"Not really." That was also technically not a lie. England wasn't his guardian anymore.

"I see."

America had to bite back a childish, 'No, you really don't, because you didn't wage a transcontinental war with your ex-guardian who looks like he hasn't aged a day since the seventeenth century and whom you just happen to be in love with.' Blurting that out really wouldn't have helped matters any.

"Do you have any other family members aside from your guardian and your brother, Matthew Williams?"

"I have Arthur, who is currently arranging my release."

"He is not legally your family."

"Only in fifteen states," America pointed out quickly, smugly. The cool metal band hung heavy and assuring from the chain he'd also strung his dog tags through, and its partner fit snugly about the finger of an Englishman somewhere above the clouds. America pulled his gloves on and off far too frequently to be certain that he wouldn't lose it somehow. England always said, in a matter of a fact tone that brooked no argument, that he was too focused on the big things to notice something as 'insignificant' as a missing ring, and insisted that the ring be kept somewhere more secure despite America's fervent disagreements that it was not insignificant and of course he would notice if his wedding ring disappeared.

"You didn't mention that the two of you are married." Oh, wow, that vein looked close to bursting forth from his temple.

"It seemed prudent to first know where you stand on the matter," America said nonchalantly. "Besides, our marriage's only been recently solemnised, what with the U.K. getting its act together only last year. I'm still getting used to being able to call him my husband."

"In that case, tell me about Mr. Kirkland."

"He's a few years older than me." 'Millennia, actually,' America thought silently. "And he used to take care of me when I was much younger. Sort of like a babysitter, except I wasn't actually a baby by then."

"Exactly how old is he?"

"This year? He turns twenty-three."

"And yet he has, presumably, a private jet and the cell number of our Secretary of Defence."

"You can't honestly tell me you're surprised by this after meeting me. We were both meteoric risers in our chosen careers." That was blatantly untrue, of course. It had taken them many human lifetimes to carve out for themselves the positions they currently held in office in their respective countries, although a large part of the process was actually dedicated to figuring out the shape of their government systems, after which positions were created for them that did not require any promotions. "His family also has a history of being filthy rich."

"How do you cope with your…relationship? Considering your different nationalities and, presumably, different places of residence."

"There's always Skype, and phone calls, and e-mails. Beats telegrams any day." The early days of their relationship after the war had been hell. Phone calls could only be made through land lines, the internet hadn't yet been invented, and a single letter sometimes took weeks to reach its recipient because the war had ravaged so many civilian postal routes.

"What do you know about telegraphs? You were born after they'd been phased out," the agent snorted under his breath.

America bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from blurting out that he was there when the Pony Express was still in business, and thus had actually witnessed a telegraph in action, unlike some aggressive TSA agents he knew. "I guess."

"Which branch of the British government does Mr. Kirkland work for?"

"He's an everything man—dabbles a little in almost every department. But he only tells me non-sensitive stuff like 'Britain intends to provide audio announcements on public buses' or 'Britain wishes to limit the age of tyres on buses and coaches'. I only ask him about work when I can't sleep. It's a very effective lullaby. By the way, how's my identity verification going?"

The agent glared at the nation for his impertinence. "We might need to take another set of prints."

"What? You mean they don't match? That's odd. I'm pretty sure scientists said that prints don't change throughout a person's lifetime." America squinted at the tiny ridges on his fingers. "Unless, of course, you're trying to prove that I hacked the system by finding prints that don't match?"

"Why would we ever—," the agent started, but was cut off by another entering the room.

The agent who'd just came looked and sounded slightly out of breath, with eyes opened so wide America feared that his eyeballs would pop out of his head. His light brown hair was swept up in a manner reminiscent of a hurricane storm, and his face had a heavy red flush as if the he had recently returned from a marathon. "Sir, the President is here."

Oh. So the situation at the White House had been resolved. That was a whole day quicker than America had expected. He stood up in anticipation, lips widening into a grin. If Barack was here, that meant that England was too.

"Mr. Jones! Remain in your seat!" the agent barked.

America pouted, but sat back down. His eyes were still glued to the door where, soon, his boss (and, more importantly, England) would appear. Excitement sang in his veins, and his legs couldn't stop jittering about with all that excess energy. It had been so long since he'd last held England's hand and kissed him silly, after all.

He could now faintly hear a pair of footsteps clicking along linoleum floor and steadily growing louder. One of them, he knew, was from a pair of smart Oxfords that England always wore when he couldn't make up his mind, and waking up in the middle of the night definitely merited wearing the pair of shoes that required the least decision making. The other was likely made by the soft leather shoes favoured by his boss for long hours in the office.

They rounded the corner, emerging from the doorway with identical haggard expressions. While the President tried to make himself look presentable in front of his people, England had fully given up on appearing put together, instead choosing to send a 'what am I going to do with you, America' look in the direction of his ex-colony.

The President approached America's primary interrogator, who looked like he was just about ready to wet himself, and greeted, "Good morning." He offered his hand for a handshake, which the agent accepted with trembling hands.

"Good morning, sir," the TSA agent returned. His voice was surprisingly steady, and had admirably resisted any overpowering urges to increase in frequency by an octave. The handshake, despite his nerves, was strong and firm, the President noted approvingly.

"I appreciate how seriously you take your job. However, I would like to assure you that Mr. Jones in no way means to plant a bomb in the airport. He is, to my knowledge, an outstanding citizen. I understand that you have doubts regarding the truth of his political involvement, so let me clarify further that Mr. Jones is also an outstanding politician. I personally vouch for his moral character, and attest that none of his illustrious military career is the result of a network breach. Unless he allows otherwise, you may address him as General Jones," the President ended with a genial smile that looked like fleece pulled over a hatchet.

"Yes, sir."

"All the paperwork has been processed. Can I assume that Mr. Jones is now a free man?"

"Yes, of course," the agent said, flustered. He turned to America, "You may leave at your convenience, General Jones." America thought the agent looked like he was sucking on a particularly pungent lemon when he said his rank.

As soon as he was given permission to, America leapt up from the chair and tackled England, who caught him with a quiet 'oof' as air was rudely expelled from his lungs by the collision. Enthusiastically, he wrapped his arms around the older nation, squeezing him so tightly that England's toes lifted off the ground for a second. He felt a pair of hands coming up to grasp him firmly around his waist in return.

"I missed you," America spoke softly into a head full of fair blond hair.

"Git," England murmured without venom, burying his face into America's shoulder. "Where is your jacket?"

"Hmm? Oh. They made me take it off." America rested his chin on England's shoulder and picked up one of his hands. A silly grin grew as he fingered the band around England's finger. He whispered, "Hey, husband."

"I hope yours is still where I last left it."

America took a step back so he could pull his chain from under his shirt. The dog tags clinked with his wedding ring and made a deafening din in the quiet room. "You could put it on for me again."

"And risk having you lose it under the couch a third time? Not a chance," England shot down immediately. His eyes sparkled happily despite the dark rings underneath them, and he squeezed America's hand gently.

"All right. Enough, you two lovebirds," the President said loudly over their hushed conversation. The two of them jumped apart, startled, having forgotten that America's boss was right next to them. They eyed the President guiltily, but he only smiled broadly at them. "I don't know how you deal with it. A week without Michelle would've driven me mad."

"We've had a lot of practice," America said sheepishly, thinking of the intervening decades.

"I don't envy you for that," his boss conceded, turning an apologetic gaze upon England as if to take the blame for grounding America in the States for the better part of a year, even though the duration of their relationship far outstripped the length of anybody's presidency.

England inclined his head in a nod toward the President. "Thank you for expediting this process. Goodness knows how much longer he'd be in here if it weren't for you."

The President laughed. "Anything for my country," he said, and the double meaning was not lost on either nation. He then gestured toward the corridor. "Shall we?"

An agent handed over America's jacket, with his wallet and phone tucked safely into one of its pockets, and the party of three started making their way out of the airport.

"Thank you, all the same," England insisted, then poked America in his side. "I don't know why he insists on being nineteen years old."

"Do I look twenty-one to you?" America challenged, pointing to himself.

"No," England retorted dryly. "You look all of your four hundred and seven years."

"Hey! I'm only two hundred and thirty-eight!" America protested. He even knew exactly how many days it had been since that fateful night.

"In that case you must have sprung from the ground when your revolution ended," England bit back. America winced. Okay, perhaps he really deserved that for forgetting his colonial days, but England's expression was nothing if not sly, so America knew that he was forgiven.

Outside, it was dark and cold, with streetlamps that retreated into the horizon gently bathing the parking area in a warm orange glow. Above head, distant suns twinkled in the night sky like jewels sewn onto the fabric of darkness itself. America glanced beside him as they walked, content to appreciate his most cherished person in silence as England and his boss chatted like old friends about scintillating topics such as standardised cup sizes. Early morning air heavy with dew lightly picked up the fine strands of England's golden hair, twisting them as a breeze swept past them. England shivered a little, and his nose started to turn red, so America took their joined hands and slipped them into the pocket of his bomber jacket.

England flashed him a tiny smile, gave his fingers a squeeze, and America felt his heart tighten painfully in his chest.

God bless America indeed.

A/N: 8-7-8-5: number pad sequence for U-S-U-K

Cross-posted on AO3. (Come say hello!)