Title: Reasons

Author: Takada Saiko

A/N: I don't own this. Once again, all you will get is books if you try to sue me, but you have to fight me for those. Poor college student and all. Now, I'm hoping this is coherent. I had the idea pop in my head, wouldn't leave me alone, but my brain is fried from midterms. Seriously, it's gone. And you want to know what's worse? I have another idea poking at my brain tissue up there. This is what happens when I fall so madly in love with a fandom so fast. Ugh! I shake my fist at you, Alfred, for being so loveable, but then I'll glomp you because I love my country so much. Meh.

He hadn't avoided the War because he was afraid. He was America and he feared nothing. Come hell or high water, his people and he stood firm on ideals and beliefs, pushing ahead. Always forward. They had joined Europe for the first World War that had been followed only a decade or so later with the fall of his stock market, causing America to truly understand what his friends had meant when they spoke of a "cold." He'd been laid up for longer than his boundless energy knew how to handle. His people had suffered.

He hadn't avoided the War because he approved of Japan or German's actions. Or Italy's, for that matter, but the pasta-fanatic didn't truly seem to be doing much good for the so-called Axis Powers. He'd made it very clear in his debates with Kiku that he'd overstepped too many boundaries and he could not and did not condone the actions. Even so… he had to try to keep the peace. It was what his people wanted, right? Well, at least it was what his boss wanted.

He hadn't avoided the War because he didn't care. It was everything that America could do when he visited England not to jump straight into the action with or without his boss' OK on the matter. His brother-turned –enemy-turned-ally had looked worn, pale, and much thinner than he remembered. England had barely spoken on his last visit, accepting the supplies and extra pilots with a stiff lip and a curt nod. He never said it, but America could see that he was silently pleading for more support than his former colony was willing - or even able at the time, America kept reminding himself – to give. It hurt to fly home and leave him stranded with bombs bruising and tearing at the elder nation's already beaten and bloody body.

There were many reasons why America avoided the War, but none of them seemed good enough now. He found himself leaning with one hand, tightly balled in a fist, on the wall for support. Blood soaked his shirt from what felt like a knife wound in his back. It hurt like hell even though it was not as deep as it could have been. He stood for a long moment, shocked, until a secretary snapped him out of it. "Mr. Jones, the President wishes to see you," the young woman said tightly. "Pearl Harbor has been attacked."

America nodded and she left him. He forced himself away from the wall and to the oval office. His steps fell hard on the flooring and he straightened his shoulders with some difficulty. It hurt: that pain in his back. He could feel the blood caking his shirt to his skin and knew that it would hurt even more to peel it away. He was never so grateful for his jacket than then so as not to frighten those that didn't know him well. Those that didn't know that he was bleeding along with all of his soldiers still trapped in Pearl.

"You've heard about Pearl?" Roosevelt asked as the young nation entered his office.

"Nothing like getting stabbed in the back," America responded, his voice not nearly as light as he'd hoped.

The president sighed, the stress obvious in his face and manner. "Are you-"

"I'm angry," America cut in, blue eyes blazing behind his glasses. "More than angry."

"Then you have no objection to me sending you to England?"

"How soon can I leave?"

It had been everything America could do to wait until his own wounds had at least been bandaged to leave for Europe. He hadn't had time to phone England, but the elder nation was waiting at the landing strip when his plane touched down. He looked even more worn that the last time he saw him and America felt his heart sink in his chest. He shook his head, briefly, and reminded himself that the past could not be changed and he had nothing to apologize for. He was only doing what he could for his people.

"I heard that you had a visit from Japan," England called over the roars of the plane engines that surrounded them.

"Little bastard stabbed me in the back," America hollered back. "Didn't even make a formal declaration before he came."

"Well, let's get you started on something with some significance," England said, shaking his head at America's flippant attitude. The world was falling apart but he stood there, steady, even after a depression and an attack on his own soil. He was always steady.

The grin didn't fade, and if anything it grew. America slapped a gloved hand on the smaller nation's shoulder. "Hey now, I won't apologize for not coming sooner, 'cause I've got my reasons for having not, but… I'm awful glad to be here now, Arthur."

England turned and America was sure that he heard something, but couldn't make it out over the sounds of the landing strip. It didn't matter, anyway, because it was time to go to war.

The day was clear and Alfred F. Jones stood looking out into the distance of the ocean. His gaze was unfocused and he looked to be deep in though. For once, Arthur thought with a huff as he came to stand by his former little brother's side.

"I can't believe you've never been here," Alfred said, apparently not quite as deep in contemplation as England had thought.

"Not everything revolves around you," Arthur snapped, looking irritated. "I had my own clean up and I have my own monuments to attend to."

"Yeah," America said quietly as his blue gaze drifted down to the water. "Did you know that the oil still leaks from the Arizona?"

"I'm sure I knew that at some point."

Alfred pointed to the water, watching as the oil discolored the water in various sections. It was strangely beautiful, that underwater tomb. It was haunting. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes and stepping up onto the first bar of the railing. He leaned as far as he could without fall over the barrier that lined the Arizona Memorial. The breeze caught his hair and he smiled, but not happily. It wasn't particularly sad, either, but England had seen the expression cross his face at various times when he was deeply touched by the strength of his people. "I know," he said lowly, "that I wasn't hurt nearly as bad as some of you, but I can't help but feel a strong sense of pride in my men."

Arthur knew this was a rare moment. All facades were down on America's end and he wore everything on his sleeve, if only for a few minutes. "You always ask me what I said that day you arrived," England murmured, not willing to look his former colony in the eye.

"Yeah? On the landing strip?"

"Yes." He paused, gripping the railing so that his knuckles turned white. Why was it so hard to admit, all of these years later, things that he could never own up to then. "I said… I said that I was happy to see you too… that I was grateful to you."

"All this time for that?" America grinned and nudged the elder nation in the arm in a playful punch. "Was it really that hard?"

"You could have come a bit sooner," England growled.

"I had-"

"Your reasons, yes, I know." His words were biting and he watched as the taller nation turned his sky-blue eyes back to the water below them. "Regardless."

"You're welcome, Arthur." No more words were needed as the two nations stood in quiet contemplation of their time in what had become known amongst some as "the Greatest Generation." They thought of the men that had fought for them, shed blood with them, and died. The sun set slowly and the call of the last ferry could be heard. Slowly, as if they wished to continue staring forever, they left that barge to the main land. Even as so many died each day, they would never forget. A nation never forgets those that are willing to give everything up for them.

A/N: Soooo…. I actually didn't mean to turn this into a Arizona story. I visited the memorial some 8-10 years ago and want desperately to go back. It moved me like few things have. Both of my grandfathers fought in WWII and I have a lot (understatement) of respect for that generation of men, and the women that waited at home. Now that I'm dating a military man I understand, to an extent, that gut wrenching feeling every time they talk about deploying him, but the fear is nothing in comparison to the pride in him, my grandfathers, and every other man or woman that has fought and either shed blood or been willing to shed blood for this fine country. So there's my little 'support the troops' bit. Please R&R!