Written for the Hetalia Kink Meme

Initially, England had blamed the economy. Granted, the current economic conditions were all America's fault to begin with, but England could still understand the younger nation being tense because of it. It wasn't as though America was acting particularly different, anyway. He was just a little less loud, a little less boisterous, and England actually appreciated the change. It made the meetings considerably less irritating.

Indeed, he'd found no real reason to be concerned about America at all (besides the normal level of concern, which he refused to think about too deeply) until his former colony had thrown France through a window.

It had been during a fairly typical meeting of nations, which meant that it had been mostly unproductive and entirely annoying. He'd picked a fight with France over something small, possibly having to do with wine. It had been downright playful considering the viciousness of some of their past arguments, and England hadn't been aware that America was even paying attention to it. The series of events had gone something like this:

England had called France a filthy, snail-sucking pervert.

France had slapped him across the cheek, though it had been almost laughably gentle compared to some of the blows he'd dealt in the past.

America had leapt across the table, seized France by the lapels of his coat, and tossed him through the window, all in one motion.

The shattering glass had silenced every conversation in the room, all the nations gaping in shock and more than a little horror at what had happened. Two things stuck out bright in England's mind from the entire incident. Number one, Russia was the only one who hadn't looked gobsmacked. Instead, the nation had smiled a little, his expression eeriely reminscent of someone who'd just seen an old friend. Number two, the look in America's eyes when he turned to stare at England could only be described as 'absolutely fucking crazy.'

Then the moment had passed, and America had started swearing in shock before darting downstairs and out of the building to check on France. For his part, France was more or less unscathed by the fall or the glass, probably due to the fact that the room they'd been meeting in was on the second story. He'd actually laughed as America had given him a hand up from the ground. England had felt like he'd entered the Twilight Zone. America had been extremely subdued and apologetic for the rest of the meeting, with the other nations giving him a wide berth. By the next day, nearly everyone seemed to have forgotten it. England was half convinced he'd hallucinated the entire incident.

It just didn't make any sense. America was at worst an idiot, but he'd always been sweet-natured and friendly. He loved to rush into battle, but England knew it was from the joy of fighting and the desire to be a hero rather than any desire to see someone hurt. Even if America was stupidly impulsive, it wasn't like him to attack with such...bloodlust. The look in his eyes that England had caught was something the older nation would have expected to see in some serial killer's mugshot, not on his former colony. Still troubled, he went to see France, hoping he'd have an explanation for America's actions, such as that France had made some incredibly offensive pass at him and America had simply been biding his time and waiting for revenge.

"Things between myself and America are fine, Angleterre," France said. "No need to worry about him losing an ally here."

"That's not what I asked you," England snapped. "Why on Earth would he attack you? You weren't even fighting with him."

The look on France's face was cagey. "As I said previously, I don't have a clue. Perhaps he was simply in a poor mood."

"America doesn't have 'poor moods'," England said. "He has differing levels of annoying cheerfulness. You honestly have no idea why he tossed you out a window?"

"No," France said, far too quickly and easily.

"Tell me."

"I haven't a clue-"

"Tell me or I'll toss you out a window myself."

"So rude, Angleterre, so very rude," France said, putting a hand across his heart as though wounded. "If I had to guess, I'd say he was bothered by my little lovetap."

"He..." That especially didn't make sense. Why would America give a damn if France slapped him? If France were legitimately attacking him, then England would've expected America to step up to his defense; they'd been allies too many times to expect differently. But for him to take umbrage at someone casually bothering England? It went against everything he knew about his former colony. "Why would you think that?"

"Listen, America is a sweet nation," France said, smiling fondly. "And he cares a great deal for you-"

"What? No, he doesn't."

"Please don't be deliberately stupid, it is so unattractive on you." France leered at him, more out of habit than anything else. "Anyway, he was likely very concerned that I might have hurt you. He's always had a bit of a temper, you know that."

"But why the hell would he overreact so much?" England was genuinely baffled. It wasn't as though America had ever shied away from hurting him when the younger nation had deemed it neccesary. England could still remember the raw pain when America had rebelled, the feeling that something precious had been ripped away from him.

"I don't know," France said with a shrug. "He was always protective of you, even during his war of independence. He specifically asked me not to cause you too much damage, if I could help it. Perhaps you should ask him yourself?"

England decided that was probably the best option.

"Too much coffee and not enough sleep," America said, laughing nervously. He seemed incredibly embarassed that England had brought it up at all. "I saw him slap you, and my hero instincts kicked in."

"I'm not some damsel that you need to rescue in your idiot fantasies!" England snapped. America just laughed.

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation; America had charged in without thinking and made an ass of himself, as usual. But that didn't explain the look in his eye, the one that had so unnerved England. He hadn't brought it up to France, and it wasn't as though he could just ask 'Hey, why did you look like you were two seconds away from killing everyone in the room?' Instead, England asked, "Anyway, is everything all right? You've been acting a bit different, France-tossing aside."

"Everything's fine," America said, all shiny teeth and Hollywood insincerity. England narrowed his eyes.

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Look, England," America said, and his voice seemed a little strained, "let it go. I apologized to France, and we're totally cool. It won't happen again."

But England couldn't let it go. The look in America's eyes in that moment...it reminded him of scorched earth, of the sky during The Blitz, of being all alone in the middle of the night and a thousand other things he couldn't articulate. It made him angry that he couldn't articulate it, angry and slightly nervous that his former colony, his America, could be invoking those feelings.

With all that in mind, he went to visit Japan, hoping for some more insight.

"Has he been acting strange?" England asked, gratefully accepting some tea. "You two are friends. Has he mentioned anything being wrong?"

"What do you mean by strange, England-san?" Japan asked, quirking his head to the side.

"Just...different." Crazy, he mentally added.

"Well, he has been stressed, of course. We all have. The wars, the economy, Iran and North Korea being, ah, Iran and North Korea, they have all weighed on him." Japan shrugged. "But otherwise, he is fine."

"He threw France through a window."

Japan shrugged again, smiling awkwardly.

"It just doesn't make any sense," England mused, more to himself than to Japan. "I mean, he's never had a scary moment in his entire life..." He trailed off at the quicksilver flash of disagreement on Japan's face, quickly covered up. "Japan?"

"It is none of my business."

"No, what is it?"

Japan was silent for several moments, looking to his left as though in deep contemplation. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting. "World War II was a difficult time for us all, regardless of whose side we were on. I do not hold him responsible for the choices he made then. We are both different people now."

England had no idea where this was going, but he nodded encouragingly.

"At the end of the war, he dropped the atom bomb on my country." Oh. That's where this was going. England sometimes forgot that of all the countries that had nuclear bombs, America was the only one who'd actually used them. Japan continued speaking. "The last meeting we had before he did this, he offered me a chance to surrender. I did not intend to take it, and he knew this, but he offered it anyway. During that meeting, he did not seem altogether well. He was very angry, much more aggressive than usual, and he was somewhat unsettling to be around. He spoke often of you."

"That makes sense, we were both Allies."

"No, England-san," Japan said. "He did not talk about the Allies. He talked about you, and how he was not going to allow an invasion of Japan to put you in danger. He talked about you almost obsessively, in fact. I ended the meeting by saying I would not surrender, and that was the last time I ever saw him like that. It would not have been particularly memorable, but the look in his eyes..." Japan trailed off and smiled awkwardly again at England. "I'm sorry, England-san, I am off-topic. Anyway, he seems fine now."

England was not so sure.

But he was fast running out of other people he could talk to about whatever the hell it was he'd seen in America's eyes. He couldn't just go door to door and ask everyone if they'd seen America act strangely. It would get back to America, first of all, and this was something England was feeling increasingly private about. But he had to know. And so, having run out of reasonably friendly faces, England turned to Russia.

"What do you want?"

Russia's greeting was as warm and friendly as ever, England noted.

"Hello, Russia. Good to see you're full of cheer," England said, leaning against the doorframe of Russia's house.

Russia smiled, although it was really a better example of 'baring teeth' than smiling, and then asked in the exact same tone, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about America."

"Ha!" Russia's laugh was booming, startling the birds in the trees. "What do you think I've got to tell you about your little colony?"

"You were, well, not close, but saw him frequently during your Cold War," England said. And you were the only one of us who didn't look horrified when America attacked France, England thought. It could just be nothing; Russia was as far from sane as most nations could become, and inappropriate reactions weren't exactly new to him. But England had a feeling about this. "I was hoping we could talk about his behavior back then. You know, look back fondly on old times, chew the fat, whatever the expression is?"

"You are a terrible liar," Russia said, still smiling horribly. His eyes slitted and he turned his head to the side, reminding England uncomfortably of a scientist looking down at something pinned and wriggling on a slide. "This is about America tossing that pansy through a window, da?"

England said nothing, simply staring up at Russia. Russia smiled wider and stepped aside, giving England room to get into the house. Once he was inside and the door had closed behind him, it was not exactly something England was happy about.

"So what is it that you want to know about America?" Russia asked, once they were both seated in what England thought might be a study of some kind. It was dark, there were books everywhere, and swords hung on the walls. It did not lend a comforting air to the conversation.

"I'm just a bit worried about him."

"If you were just worried about him, you wouldn't be talking to me," Russia said, leaning back into his chair. "Either get to the point or leave."

"When he attacked France, you were the only one of us who wasn't surprised," England said. For once, he appreciated Russia's brusqueness. It meant he would get a straight answer. "Why?"

Russia smiled, and there was nothing reassuring in it. He glanced off to the side for a moment, as if deep in thought, playing with the edges of his scarf. Then he began to speak.

"World War II was an interesting time, da? By the end, most of the globe was on its knees, too battered and beaten to be the threats they once were. It was the same all through Europe, and it was the same for you." Russia's teeth seemed to glint for a moment. "I was the only one left standing, still a superpower, still poised to make the world mine. I looked around for challenges, and the only one staring back at me, standing as tall as ever, was America.

"I already know this," England snapped, not liking the look in Russia's eyes when he talked about America.

"Heh, so you do," Russia laughed. "Well then, something you don't know, da? When I think of the Cold War, one memory sticks out to me above all the others. It was winter in Moscow and the snow was falling heavily. America and I were meeting, along with some of our dignitaries, and it was all very tense and falsely polite. America did not return to the meeting after a break, and I went to look for him. I found him standing outside, looking up at the snow. He did not look at me, and for a moment I thought I'd snuck up on him. But then he said to me 'This is what it will be like when we launch the bombs. There'll be ash as far as the eye can see, and it'll fall like snow. We'll go out and play in it.' It has been sixty years since that day, and I can still remember every word. Then he turned to look at me, and the the expression in his eyes was like nothing I've ever seen before or since. It was fascinating."

England was finding it a little hard to breathe, the oppressive weight of the gloomy little study and Russia's words bearing down on him. He could see the scene in his mind perfectly, America grinning in the snow, glasses fogged and eyes mad.

"Before the Cold War, I mostly thought of America as your little bastard offspring, a loud waste of space that had taken Alaska from me. But that all changed. Because he saw the world the way I did, felt what it was to be powerful when no one else was, and he revelled in it."

"You're lying," England said, before thinking. "He's nothing like you."

"You want so badly to believe that he's still a child at heart, good and pure and untouched by reality, da?" Russia's eyes glinted in the dark. "But I was not matched against a child; he was my equal, and he was fearless. You all think it was me that held the world hostage for so long, the threat of nuclear bombs like a gun to your head. But it was he who pushed things, he who dared me, he who first said 'mutually assured destruction.' He told me once that he'd pull the trigger if I would. But I never wanted the end of the world."

"And you're saying he did?" England asked, voice shaky.

"I'm saying he didn't care," Russia replied. "He wanted to see what would happen next. He wanted things to end in a bang. All in all, he was very agreeable company."

England had no idea what to say to that. None of it made sense, none of it seemed possible. How could America, silly, sweet America, have done any of what Russia was claiming? It was impossible to reconcile his memories of a laughing little boy with the lunatic Russia was describing.

"He has a soft spot for you, though," Russia mused, almost thoughtfully.

"No, he doesn't," England insisted, voice nearly at a whisper. Russia laughed.

"I would tease him, you see, describe in great detail how his buildings would burn and his people would die screaming. And most of the time he would tease back, laugh and tell me how his tanks would flatten my cities and the streets would turn red with blood. Except when I talked about you. I made one little comment about how London would be a nuclear wasteland and you'd be on your knees before me, begging for any kindness I'd offer, and it made him furious. I was lucky my heart was not inside me that day, since he shoved a knife straight into my chest." Russia smiled cheerfully. "It left a very nice scar. Would you like to see it?"

"You're insane," England said. In retrospect, he realized it was the equivalent of staring at water and calling it wet, but at the time there was nothing so prominent in his mind as the need to tell Russia how absolutely mad he was.

"Oh, everyone thinks that, da?" Russia waved his hand indulgently. "It is old news. He started changing after a while, becoming as boring as the rest of you, but I still see the flashes of who he truly is sometimes. I miss talking to him very much; hopefully, I'll get the chance again."

"That's not who America is!" England snapped, standing abruptly. He wanted very badly to get out of this room. It was like he was claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in. "You saw him at a bad time, that was all. We've all had bad times."

"And you're so sure that you know who he really is?" Russia laughed, standing as well. He towered over England, casting him in his shadow. "When you found him, he was already a child, had already been alive for who knows how long. You took him in, but you did not create him."

"You're wrong," England protested. But even as he said it, he couldn't help but think of fairy tales, of the stories warning about the things that lived in the dark woods. Changelings, monsters, wolves in sheep's clothing. It was ridiculous and he knew it. There was nothing that unusual about how he'd found America, he was sure of it. But the thought still lurked there, like eyes peering out from the trees.

"Da, perhaps I am," Russia said, still smiling. "But there is blood on your little America's hands, lovely and red, and I have seen what he he has tried to hide from you."

"Thank you for your time," England said, so quickly that the words all blurred together. He grabbed his coat and damn near fled from the room. He needed to get out of there now.

Behind him, he heard Russia call, "Feel free to come back any time. I enjoyed our talk."