London, December, 1941

America opened the familiar, worn door, his movements slow and uncertain. He had known this place from the time he was a child, and now he felt like a child again, lost and afraid of what he was coming into.

He started to call out, as he had done so many times before, but the words caught in his throat and came out as nothing but a tired sigh. He glanced up and surveyed the hall, wincing as it seemed far too bright, noon sunlight streaming in. It hurt his eyes, forcing him to look down to avoid a headache. He had been getting a lot of those lately.

Keeping his eyes down, America padded down the hall. It was unsettlingly silent, no movement at all from the rooms ahead. In fact they were empty; the kitchen had no cook, the living room no guests, and the bedroom no one resting. There was obvious lack of any homely objects or knickknacks, almost as if the house had long been left deserted. Nonetheless, America checked each room, lump growing in his throat as he faced the final choice.

It was an office, and once again one that he was well acquainted with. As a child he wasn't allowed in; as a teenager he had been there numerous times, most of them filled with shouting and arguments. This room held so many memories, good and bad. It was the one he had run away from years ago, abandoning the person left behind…

And now he was back, about to beg forgiveness for the exact same offense.

Dread weighing down on him, America reached out to turn the knob on the door. It turned smoothly under his hand and the door swung open with barely a sound. He stepped inside and shut it behind himself, eyes still averted to the floor the entire time. In a final effort to stall he squared his shoulders and shifted on his feet.

Then, steeling himself, he looked up.

One the other side of the room, seated with their back to him, was another man. His arms were resting stiffly at the chair's sides and his blond hair was outlined by the sunlight that had been plaguing America earlier, giving him the appearance of having a golden halo. But there was nothing angelic about the hatred rolling off him, accentuated by the tenseness in his shoulders.

"You're here." He spoke dryly, putting no emotion in the words. They were cold, and as forgiving as a slap to the face for America.

"Yes." The younger nation said quietly, wishing he could have been as frigid in his reply. But his voice shook, and he knew the other man had heard it. But what would his reaction be?

There was a long pause, then, "It's late."

For a moment America was confused, it was barely noon, but then he realized the other wasn't referring to the time. It was late for this. For coming here.

"I know."

The other man went silent, refusing to move or speak. Even from behind America could see that his chin was held up, pride keeping him from accepting his guest.

America shuffled awkwardly, searching for something to say. He had thought this all through on the plane ride over, but every phrase, every scenario he had thought of couldn't have prepared him for this treatment. He could have dealt with anger. Even rage. He would have been ecstatic if he was given forgiveness or the slightest welcome. But this… nothing was killing him.

So he blurted the first thing out that came to mind, hoping for any reaction at all. "I read your letters."

Nothing but silence. Outside a bird trilled, but the man before him refused even one word.

"I—ah," America ran his fingers through his hair, beginning to become desperate. "Look, I'm sorry."

The bird continued to be the only sound, and the other blond stayed as still as a living statue. America slumped, unable to take it anymore. He turned quickly, about to go out the door and tell his superior that he would have to find some other way to do this. There would be no reconciliation today.

But, just as his hand touched the door, there was a rustle from behind him. America forced himself to stop and look one more time.

The other man had turned, green eyes half-lidded and exhausted. Scars marred his skin every few inches where it was visible, especially near his collar where a hint of a burn stood out against pale skin. He just looked for a long moment, lips set in a tight line as he took in America.

The other nation returned the gaze, lips parted in a surprised noise. Was this…? No, it didn't look anything like him. This couldn't be the same man that used to lead him by the hand, who used to look so tall and powerful with his feathered hat and great ships. This wasn't even the one who he had crawled with through mud only years before, the one whose face always held a fierce snarl in the trenches despite a constant rain of rockets and machine gun fire. This worn, thin creature with empty eyes was nothing like him.

But as much as America didn't want to believe it this was England. This was the great British Empire.

"You…" He stopped, not wanting to describe what he saw. America had only once before put it to words, and it was his most painful memory concerning the other nation.

You… used to be so big.

England's eyes went down and he turned back around, moving like he was fragile and ready to break at any moment. His hand moved to the desk, closing over an envelope. He held it up, saying simply, "I never sent it."

America stepped forward, taking the paper numbly. England's hand dropped to his side and he went back to staring in the opposite direction.

Swallowing painfully past the lump that felt like it completely cutting off his throat, America opened the letter.

April 5, 1941

America,

You never came, but I assume you know that. The raids have all but ended about a week ago and I can begin to total up my losses. It will be a long and painful process, but I won't waste my ink telling you about it. You obviously do not have the slightest interest or concern for my affairs.

So I will just go straight to my point.

Britain is still standing today; it was not destroyed by the Germans. I am not wearing a swastika, nor did I sign an armistice. I am not neutral. I may be one of the last nations left to fight the Axis, but I am here.

No thanks to you.

You sent me supplies, you did small things, and I know, some day, American history books will sing the songs of the few of your countrymen that were here. But I want to tell you it was not you or anyone else who won this for me. I fought tooth and nail and I survived over a hundred days and nights alone. Maybe Germany is onto something; he says I continue fighting just for the sake of being difficult. I agree with him now, because after what I've seen there is no other reason. There are no victories, there is no good, there is no end in sight.

And there are no heroes.

If you receive this I almost wish you wouldn't bother coming. I sent you close to 120 letters, each of them begging you to come for one reason or another. I asked you to keep Canada out of the war, to help me rescue France, Poland, Belgium, or anyone else. I asked for your sake. I even asked for me.

You never came, which, now that I'm still standing, made me realise something.

I might accept your help, I might fight this war one day on your side. You might save everyone else and get thanks from all of them. But me? I stood alone, and I made it without you.

So you might fight alongside me, but know that you'll never fight for me.

Sincerely,

England

America winced, feeling the sting in the signature. England heard him shift and sighed.

"I was angry at you, so I didn't send it." He explained dryly, putting his hand on the desk for support as he faced the younger nation fully. "But it still holds true. My people are strong, they don't need to be rescued."

America recoiled from the biting words, head down. "I'm sorry Arthur." He whispered, hands going automatically across his chest in a defensive position. The left, his dominate one for half a century, gave a strong pang as he moved it. A pained expression flinted across his face before he could stop it and America was embarrassingly aware of England's gaze falling on the bandaged limb.

The older man looked for a second longer, then, almost hesitantly, picked another envelope off his desk. "I also never sent this."

America was reluctant to take the second letter, wondering what he was in for this time. But England's expression made it apparent he had no choice in the matter, so he took it and removed the envelope as slowly as possible, delaying. Eventually, though, he had to read the words written neatly in England's hand.

December 8, 1941

Alfred,

I won't call you 'Dear Alfred' yet. It tastes wrong on my tongue, it doesn't look right on paper.

But despite that I would be a bastard if I didn't write this. I heard about Japan, and, even in the wake of what just happened here, I know this has hit you hard. So I wanted to offer my condolences for all your citizens at Pearl Harbor.

Churchill has informed me that you will join the war and many of your troops will be arriving here since your Pacific bases have been destroyed. I should be relieved, after all, we can finally go on the offensive, but I don't know what I can say when I see you.

I won't lie, this is going to be difficult. I might not ever forget that you stayed neutral, and now, even though you will be coming to help, that it was only because Japan forced you to join.

I need time, Alfred, I need a lot of time. But maybe, one day soon, I can ignore the idea of fighting 'for' someone else. I don't want you for that. Hopefully we can just agree to fight together, as equals, even as brothers, for the same cause.

I'm sorry,

Arthur

"I hated you."

America looked up at England's sudden words, barely finished reading the letter. The Briton's fingers were clenched into a fist, eyes on a far corner of the room. His jaw worked for a moment, but he shook his head and opened his clenched hand slowly, releasing the buildup of tension with it.

"I hated you, but I can't stay angry at you!" He glanced back, giving America a characteristic scowl. The expression was so normal, so out of place for their conversation, that America couldn't stop the chuckle that erupted from him.

England's eyebrows furrowed further. "What, you think I'm joking?" He asked in annoyance, crossing his arms.

America stifled his laughter, not wanting to send the other nation back into his cold, harsh attitude again. "No, no, of course I don't." He replied hurriedly, holding up his hands in defense. There was no holding back a touch of a smile though. "It's just… I haven't seen you give me that look in a long time."

England eyed him warily, wondering what he was about, but snorted at his wording nonetheless. "I'm glad you find it amusing when someone considers you a complete and utter idiot." He muttered, turning back to his desk. His expression sobered and his hand went to his brow, massaging it distractedly. His eyes fell shut. "Idiocy aside, I meant what I said. You're late, even if you're here. I am appreciative, but for cripes sake don't ask me to thank you yet Alfred!"

A fist hit the desk and America's mouth opened in surprise as England's speech quickened, suddenly escalating to a shout. The Briton was abruptly tense a bowstring, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. The change caught America so off guard his first instinct was to try and put a comforting hand out to the other nation.

The second his palm toughed England's shoulder America found his wrist caught in an iron grip. Blazing green eyes faced him, wide and disconcertingly unfocused.

"A-Arthur?" He stuttered, taking a step back.

"Don't… t-touch me." England's voice broke and his fingers on America's wrist shook, eventually sliding away to fall limply at his side. He hung his head, "Just… not now Alfred."

He's… scared. America stumbled backward, reeling. What had been done to terrify England, he didn't even want to imagine, but whatever it was it had been bad enough for the British nation to be quaking in his chair. Like he was afraid he might be attacked at any moment…

…shit.

Of course.

"Arthur, it's over." America whispered, keeping his distance and giving the elder man breathing room. "I'm not Germany, I'm here to help. Mattie's flying in from Hong Kong, he'll be here soon too. We're all friends."

England shivered, crossing his arms and gripping at his shoulders. He shook his head and looked blankly out the window. "I know. I know dammit." He ground his teeth, obviously embarrassed. "I'm not used to anyone but him crossing the Channel. I can feel it now, when another nation comes across the border, and it just sets me on edge, alright?" He could practically hear the sirens wailing again, the airplanes roaring, the sickening feeling of another nation there watching.

America watched England battle with himself, torn between the desire to try and help or just stay back. In the end he did step forward, reaching out again, but his hand only rested on the back of the chair. England stiffened at the proximity, but after an annoyed huff seemed to relax fractionally.

"I'm not Germany, Arthur," Giving a wry smile behind the Brit's back, America sighed. "And whether either of us likes it or not we're brothers, stuck together until the end."

England's brow pulled up and his face twisted in an effort to conceal his expression. What exactly that expression was, America would never know because at that moment the other nation was on his feet, moving with none of the frailty that would have been expected.

"I assume you'll want the front room."

With that he pushed by, stepping gracefully on America's toes as he went to find blankets and make up the bed. Behind him, America stifled a yelp for his abused foot and stared with disbelief.

"That's—"

England stopped, turning balefully. America's mouth snapped shut on the end of his comment.

That's it?

No… further discussion? Just back to… normal? (if this could be considered the least bit normal) It left him feeling like there was so much more to say, so much that just… wasn't there.

America remained silent, and after a moment England left. As his footsteps retreated upstairs America wondered if this meant he would never be forgiven. It happened—oh, he knew it was possible for nations to never forgiven each other. Russia would never forgive him for the business during his revolution, England and France would never put certain battles to rest, and many others. Living hundreds of years didn't mean they had to learn anything from them.

He didn't want that. At one time, not long ago in fact, America would have given up everything west of the Mississippi if he never had to see St. George's cross flying in the wind ever again. Now it felt wrong to just let England walk away into another room without some kind of resolution between them.

America made a decision then and took the steps two at a time, only slowing with a curse when his bandaged arm smacked into the banister. He pushed on, hissing between his teeth and trying to focus on moving his feet rather than his aching bones.

The 'front room" as England called it was directly at the end of the steps and to the left. Why England himself hadn't taken it, America had always wondered. It had the finest view of the city, but the Briton's own bed was situated down the hall in a room with windows facing his neighbor's wall. At one time America would have guessed he was just spoiling his charge; now it seemed more likely the other nation didn't want to see what had become of his city.

Whatever the reason, the front room was already made up for him by the time he lurched through the doorway. England was somewhere else, but America paused nonetheless.

The other man had smoothed a tattered, but clean set of blankets over the bed and pulled the quilt down, removing the shams too. He obviously remembered America would sleep on them without a thought. But that wasn't what made the western country pause.

Tossed almost carelessly at the head of the bed was an ancient pillow, and a familiar one at that. It was a lumpy, ill-formed thing that looked about as comfortable as a rock and most people would have thrown it out. Well, not everyone. A historian might give it to a museum, as it was over 200 years old.

America stepped over quietly, running a hand along the frayed tassels in the corners. He was amazed they stayed on at all; he had sewn them on himself, back when he wanted to do everything and anything England did. The pillow was the result of many pin-pricked fingers and teary nights sitting on his guardians lap while the older nation helped him fix his stitching. A lump grew in America's throat.

"Found it in the closet." England said from the doorway. His tone stayed flat, but America caught the expectancy in it.

"Why?" The taller blond asked, hand dropping to his side. I'm not a child… why would you do that?

He wanted to have England forgive him, but he also didn't want the elder man going back to their relationship from long ago. It wouldn't work, and the vicious cycle of drawing together and breaking apart would continue.

"I thought it might help you sleep." England replied, and America's head bowed.

"Arthur…"

"…but you're no infant, and it's not noon naptime." Green eyes sparkled a little, amusement leaking from their owner. "It's actually closer to teatime, and if you expect me to discuss where we're going to put thousands of your loud, obnoxious soldiers on my islands I need a steaming cup. You know where the kettle is."

"So I… do." America took a second to realize he had just been given an order.

"You are a capable adult, are you not?" England questioned with a tilt of his head.

America frowned, understanding making slow progress in his mind, but nodded.

"Good. Then I'll be in the living room. The damned draft up here is making me feel like an old man."

And once again the moment was over, leaving America feeling… unfinished. There was no blow up, no sparks, no clash of wills. Come to think of it, they had only had one such collision, and it was on a rainy field in 1783.

I hated you, but I can't stay angry at you.

Anticlimactic.

That was the word for them, America suddenly realized. He would never get his moment to pour out his feelings because England already understood them. They would never resolve the anger between them because it had never honestly been there. Not like he had thought, at least. He would never hear the words I consider you my equal from his brother, because England already treated him like one.

Anticlimactic—no showy resolution, no pinpointed second where everything fell into place. Just a simple sense that they were continuing on, side by side, brother with brother.

"Alfred, the only thing getting anywhere near boiling down here is my annoyance for slow Americans!"

America smiled.

"Coming, Arthur."

AN: That took way too long. But it was a really, really hard ending to write! D: I'd love any feedback on the platonic-historical USUK relationship... thing.

I don't think any dates need much explanation, although 1783 is when America and England would have faced off in the famous episode, not 1776.

Hope you all enjoyed!