It seemed like every time England met with his boss, he came out of it either angry or, more often, blushing. He was always alluding to things that weren't even legal, much less something acceptable to joke about. I swear, if I have to hear him say "Special Relationship" one more time I'm going to tear out his voice box and feed it to him.

There was nothing like that going on between himself and America. He had told as much to Churchill, and was always given the simple rejoinder of "Do you want there to be?"

That was usually when England ran out of the room -- normally into some government official or other -- with a quick apology and a hand over his face. It was more of an admission than words could give, and he knew it, but it was better than having as awkward a conversation as would result with his boss. "Yes, I'm a homosexual. Please don't send me to an insane asylum."

Churchill had kept the phrase between the two of them for a few years, and England was fine with that. Of course he'd rather the phrase had never been thought of in the first place, but it was better than nothing. But then he had decided to say it in public. England almost didn't go to the next meeting he had with America. But America hadn't said anything. He had just looked at England when he arrived (an hour late) with a look that suggested he was surprised that he had shown up at all, and then just inserted himself into the conversation. Their bosses whispered something to each other, lost over America's shouting. England only saw the looks on their faces, and that was enough for him to know that he most assuredly did not want to know what was said.

America had heard, obviously, when he choked in the middle of a sentence – something he never did without a burger in his mouth – and tried to pass of his bright red face and coughing fit with "Just forgot to breathe, I'm fine!" He rambled on without a pause, but when four o' clock came around and the bosses started shaking hands and saying their goodbyes, America just waved and shouted "Bye!" as he ran out the door.

England stayed behind, even after their bosses had left and the cleaning ladies had come in and asked how long he would be in there. He wanted to make sure that America didn't have any ideas about staying behind to talk to him.

Eventually England wandered over to the bay widow and sat down on the cushions spread out on it. He looked out over the pristine streets of – what city had America dragged them all too again? – and compared it to his own home. America wasn't still cleaning up destruction. Not here, at least. Was that why he was so happy all the time -- because he didn't have to suffer through the same pain that all of Europe had --?

He looked down at the entrance area directly below. America was still there, sitting on a bench, waving at the odd person that walked by. It didn't surprise him. He still had that ridiculous smile on his face, never betraying that he had been wearing the same smile ten years earlier, during the first battle he fought in WWII alongside England; or nearly thirty years earlier, when he and England hauled soldiers up out of a trench about to fill with poison gas, or nearly a hundred and eighty years earlier –

England shuddered.

No, he would have been like this anyways.

England felt like a stalker. He dismissed the feeling; it had been a long time since he gave a damn about what was legal or not. He left the room and took the long way out. When he reached the entrance, America was still there, this time petting someone's dog, talking to its owner. England stayed inside, watching America through the glass doors.

The owner left with his dog, jogging down the street together. America smiled as they left, then almost instantly turned his face to a sobered look, and turned his eyes to the ground. England barely noticed himself run out the door, and neither did America, who didn't even see England until the older man was directly in front of him and casting a shadow on his feet. America stood.

The two walked down the street in silence. England vaguely registered that they passed his hotel, but didn't really care. They kept walking and ended up at a harbor; England remembered it was Boston.

Standing there with America gave England a feeling he hadn't had since America was half his height. Not quit happiness; just a contented feeling. If he couldn't have America back as before – and by this point, he didn't even want to anymore, America was much better off free – then this was enough. Eventually they'd become friends. England didn't know what to call what they had now. With a small smile he realized that Churchill's choice of words described them as well as any words could. They weren't friends, but they were more than acquaintances, and definitely not enemies. Just a relationship, and a special one at that.

The next time Churchill asked England, "Do you want there to be?" England just responded, "Does it matter?"

It wasn't a no (because yes, England did want it), but it wasn't a yes (because England wanted what was best for America, too). Churchill just smiled. He understood.

--

Notes:

-Set around 1954-55, near the end of Churchill's time as PM.

-I don't know if Churchill ever met with any president in Boston. Do not take it as fact.

-America's boss is not named for 2 reasons: a) I am lazy and b) it's from England's POV and I didn't think it fit.

-At the time, homosexuality was considered a psychological disorder. It was also illegal in England until 1967.

-This whole fic was a mixture of two possible topics I had picked for a research assignment for my final paper: The Special Relationship and the Gay Rights Movement. All historical info is taken from by good frienemy Wikipedia since I haven't actually done any real research yet.