Whyyyyyyy I do this to myself I'll never know. It's well past four in the morning and I'm just finishing up with this now - all because I want the poxy date to be right. Oh, how I suffer for my art (and how the quality suffers in turn, I'm sure~). I apologise in advance, therefore, for any typos.

The inspiration for this story comes from two things:

One: A recent Channel 5 (UK) documentary entitled America's Planned War on Britain, which explored the detailed war plans and scenarios completed in 1935 for a war between the United States and the British Empire. Yes, really! Google 'War Plan Red' for more extensive information if you'd like!

Two: (more strangely) The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, in particular The Vanishment of Haruhi Suzumiya with a touch of the cake-taking Endless Eight. If you've never seen Haruhi - which you should, it's fantastic - it doesn't matter, I'm just giving a shout-out to my inspiration.

This is a 4th July fic - my seventh annual update on here because I'm oh-so-cool - but I tried to be a bit different from the standard offerings about America's birthday where England sulks before finally putting out that are found on FFNet on this day.

Not that that doesn't happen in here all the same. XD

The Second World's War

"Are you quite sure you oughtn't be somewhere else?" England sighed it over his spiced rum, clearly very content that he had commandeered America's attention elsewhere; he swilled the copper around the bottom of his glass with idle interest. "I mean…"

"Oh. Probably." America shrugged, playing with a little sprinkling of salt on the tablecloth. "It is the Fourth."

"You're playing hooky."

"Yup." America flicked the salt across the table at him. "You're a devil on my left shoulder."

"I don't think that's fair."

"You wouldn't." America leaned back in his chair, exhaling; it was still warm, the evening air balmy and sweet. "Are you honoured?"

"That you spent today with me, you mean?"

"Well, yeah." America grinned. "I'm supposed to be at the big annual celebratory dinner at the White House. I bet they're freaking out, wondering where the hell I am. Truman'll have a blue fit." A laugh now. "I'll be drawn and quartered when they catch me."

"How very Medieval." England shook his head at him fondly. "I suppose I can't help but be honoured, then - even though the date still leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

America gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"The Revolution didn't have much to do with either of us," he said flatly. "It was the humans - mine wanted one thing, yours wanted another, they thought it best to fight it out. We got dragged in, sure, but it wasn't our fight."

"Still," England said, "don't those fights shape us all the same?"

"I guess." America looked towards the beach. "You want to go down? We could walk off dinner."

England nodded and finished his rum.

"Sounds good." He set down his glass like a chess-piece. "Ah, about the bill-"

"It's done." America got up and pushed in his chair. "I put it on my expenses. Come on."

Rising to join him, England grinned.

"My, my, you do spoil me," he said, putting his hand to the small of America's back. "They truly are going to skin you alive."

"Remember June sixth?" America was swinging their clasped hands between them as they crisp-crushed their way across damp, crumbling sand. "How many years ago was it now? Five?"

"Six. It's 1950."

"Oh, yeah. I forget sometimes." America gave a laugh that didn't quite light his voice. "We lost a lot of guys that day, huh?"

"It was to be expected."

"Huh." America stopped, England jostling into him. "Makes you wonder, though."

"It makes you wonder what?" England sounded impatient.

America said nothing for a long moment, standing at the vanishing edge of the beach with the tide daring to creep near to his toes. The sun was setting low over the lush Caribbean waters, vibrant like a new penny, with the velvet pull of dusk falling in its wake. It was quiet but for the gentle rustle of the coconut palms and he half-expected to see the black shapes of galleons or aircraft carriers drifting over the still seas, the crumpled imbed of a million bootprints in the virgin sand.

"What does it make you wonder, America?" England asked; he took back his hand to fish in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.

"Oh. You know." America gave a shrug. "If it was worth it."

"Of course it was worth it!" England snapped his lighter shut incredulously. "What was the alternative? Just let Germany overrun Europe?"

"Well, no, it's just…" America gave a shrug. "Well, all those people who died and then… well, the Iron Curtain went down and China went red and sometimes it feels like we stopped the Nazis, sure, but we're just hurtling head-long into another war that will be even worse, what with the weapons we have now-"

"Is this what you talk about?" England interrupted icily. "You and your boss?"

America looked at him and gave a helpless shrug.

"What do you want us to talk about? Russia is a big deal-"

"America-"

"And besides which, you don't like him either!"

"Of course I don't," England said sharply. "Empires and Communists do not build bridges together. Still, you ought to know the difference between those sorts of threats-"

"This is a real threat!" America suddenly looked very frustrated. "Russia just up and took half of Germany!"

England looked boredly at his cigarette.

"Then declare war on him," he said flatly. "I'll ally with you."

"You don't have any money," America replied dismissively; but he said it too quickly, too shamefully.

"You can add it to the Lend-Lease." England gave him another sharp, suspicious look. "Or is there something you're not telling me?"

"Like what?" America reached down for a smooth, flat pebble and flung it far out to sea, spiralling over the waves like a bird. There was a definite air of distraction about him now.

"Well, you'll forgive me but I have to say this is all… somewhat suspicious." England took a deep drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke plume out over his bottom lip. "The sudden whisking-away, the five star hotel, the fine restaurants, the date…"

"What, I can't do something nice for you?" America glanced at him, his blue eyes bright over his glasses. "We've been together eight years and I know you don't like today, right, so I thought-"

"No," England interrupted coldly. "I don't buy it. I'm sorry."

America shrugged.

"Fine. Don't, then."

"America." England took his arm, his thin fingers clamping tight into the soft, worn leather. "Please. You do, at least, take your duties as a nation seriously and today is one of the most important dates in the White House calendar. Why are you here with me instead? Tell me the truth."

"Why you gotta assume something's up?" America asked quietly, trying to take his arm back; England was persistent, however, and held fast. "Why can't I just-"

"Because you're not yourself," England interrupted, frowning. "I appreciate the act but I can see right through it. Something's troubling you." He gave a smoky snort. "D-Day is one of your bragging rights, or at least you seem to claim it as such. You knew what we had to do back then, even at the cost. You've never shown regret about it before. We lost thousands of good men, yes, but they didn't die for nothing. You know that."

America gave him an agonised look.

"But what if they did?"

England took another inhale on his smoke; it was crumpled now, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's a bit late to being having second thoughts now," he said coolly.

America looked away.

"But it's not," he said in a low voice. "I'm the holder of the world's hegemony."

There was a moment's silence between them. England's fist loosened and slid from America's battle-worn sleeve; his green eyes were horrified.

"You… America, what… what are you saying?" He seized America by his loosened tie. "You can't actually be serious, you daft prick!"

America wilted a bit.

"It's not my decision," he muttered. "I argued against it but… well-"

"It's stupid!" England spat. "It's stupid and reckless and selfish! I never did it - and neither did France or Spain! For god's sake, even Rome-"

"But this isn't like all those times!" America interrupted desperately. "You might have been the biggest empire in the world but you didn't have hydrogen bombs capable of wiping out entire cities!"

"But that's the advance of technology!" England argued. "Those bombs will be created anyway, one way or another."

"Not if the war changes."

"America, the fact is that, in a lot of ways, we won that bloody war by the skin of our teeth. If you change it, well, you might be looking at worldwide Nazi rule instead. There are so many ways it might have turned out differently, particularly before you came in." England kneaded at his forehead. "Put it like this: If you unloop history enough that I lose the Battle of Britain in 1940, my country gets taken and Germany has all of Europe. That knocks me and all of my colonies, Canada included, out of the running. You won't be able to supply me with weapons any longer and Japan won't attack you for it - so the circumstances of you entering the war, if you do at all, become very different. You'll be fighting the war on your own with no European base except for our old friend Russia and he's not exactly in a great geographical position for bombing raids on Berlin, is he?"

"This isn't my decision!" America said desperately.

"But it's your power!" England snapped. "You can put your foot down! Where's that spine of yours, eh? The one you brag about every year on this exact day?"

"They ran simulations!" America burst out. "Alternate future test-runs in closed spaces - and they're not pretty, England, none of them. In one, Communism overruns more than half the world, spreading from China right through the East and from Russia all the way through Europe. In another, you and I end up fighting in Korea and Vietnam and, while our forces are deployed there, Russia moves from Germany and Alaska, though Canada, to invade us. In another there's a terrible thing in Cuba which comes to an all-out nuclear war. In another-"

"They're not always accurate," England cut in. "The closed space simulations are meant to be used to plan battles; you're grossly misusing them to rewrite history."

"But there's more at stake than ever before," America said gently. "It's not selfish, England. I wish it was so I didn't have to feel guilty about arguing against it - but it isn't. It's for the best."

England was silent; he turned away, finishing his cigarette.

"And what about us?" he asked in a low voice. He tossed the husk of his smoke to the sand and crushed it with a smart twist of Italian leather - and moments later the tide exhumed it and carried it off like a coffin-bearer.

"Us?"

"Oh, don't be so sickeningly stupid!" England folded his arms tightly. "You and I, the relationship we've had since 1942, the idiotic doe-eyed looks and the pathetic pining and the whispered sweet nothings and the before-mission goodbye kisses and the delicious reunion buggery! What about that? Will that disappear too?"

"I… I don't know," America said lamely, though his voice caught in his throat.

"You do know!" England stormed, whirling on him. "You do - because otherwise you wouldn't be here with me, offering me the best your money can buy! You'd be at the White House where you belong and we'd have all the time in the world for feather pillows and spiced rum and walks on the beach!"

"Would you rather I had done nothing?" America asked desperately. He reached for England's shoulder, though he pulled away angrily. "England, please… I love you more than anything but we're nations, we have a duty to our people and…and this is going to save so many lives, I can't even begin to tell you-"

"Don't lecture me about being a nation," England said icily. "I know all about making sacrifices of that kind. I could have changed the world, you know, to win you back in 1776. I could have wiped the Declaration from your memory, I could have stopped the Tea Party and avoided the Massacre - but I didn't. Even though my government wanted me to, I didn't. It was wrong to meddle with history, I thought, even if that history was painful." He looked at America in disgust. "Meddling with the future is even worse."

"You're just being selfish." America looked out to sea again. "And god knows I want to be - but I just can't. I can't let Communism spread. I can't let the world fall - and either can you, England. It'll cost us our eight years but the world will live. I don't think we have a choice, do you?"

"I think," England said, "you're an inconceivable bastard for choosing today." He looked at America. "You always pick the fourth of July to break my heart."

America exhaled.

"I guess I like to be consistent." He put out his hand. "Let's go back to the hotel."

England looked pointedly at him.

"You want sex," he said.

"I want to make love."

England snorted.

"You always say such absurd things."

"England. Please. I don't know how much time we have."

England put his hand into America's with a deep sigh.

"I suppose you do like to be consistent," he said quietly. "You and I never seem to know how much time we have; we're always parted by history or her undoing."

The night air was still sweet, whispering in through the open window with the curtains rippling like the sea. The quiet was punctuated by the gentle chug of the ceiling fan and the calm rush of the sea far below, carrying on the breeze - and England's breathing as he slept with his head on America's chest. The suite - penthouse, the very best in the hotel - was coloured with the fingerprints of their final night together: the glitter of the half-glass of champagne left in the bottle on the dresser, the wrinkles in their suits flung over every surface like cast-off skins, the smears on the glass, the unplugged telephone. It had been desperate and sad, on the edge of a death sentence, and now they had nowhere left to run. This was the very end of their world, the flat edge yawning before them; a final etching of what it had become since 1942 - and since 1776, far removed from muddied battlefields and gleaming guns.

America lay on his back and watched the slow orbit of the metal fan, rattling around and around and around. He had begun to count, perhaps an hour ago, and had quickly lost his place. Hundreds, thousands, millions. It was endless, surely.

It didn't make the room much cooler.

England shifted, his cheek pressing to America's sweat-sticky collarbone. America bit his bottom lip and paused and then breathed out. The very air, sexed and smoky and stale, stank of oasis.

The clock ticked over. July 5th. The worst was done.

Ah, how often that sacred midnight rewrote the world with its dying breath.

"We're going to initiate War Plan Red," they said.

It was 1938 and the plan had been in the pipeline since the 1920s. America, who himself preferred moral wars, was not a great advocate of the plan, never had been, but he knew what had gone before and was perfectly poised, naturally, to sign away his soul to alternate timelines.

He was the only one who still had his memories and he remembered that, in the first world, this plan had never come to pass. It was strange, perhaps, to engage in a war with the British Empire when the true target, well down the line, was actually Russia - but England, as was his practice, was in the damned way.

So America put aside that final night in 1950 and signed his agreement and the war began.

"Could you just surrender?" America asked pleadingly. "It really would be a lot easier on us all."

Canada, who was at his most dangerous when he was cornered, did not lower his gun.

"This is the third time you've done this," he said in a low voice, "and the third time you will find me a difficult opponent, America. I won't surrender, not to you."

America breathed out an incredulous laugh.

"No, no," he conceded. "I guess you won't, huh?"

Canada gestured at the door with his pistol.

"So we're clear," he said. "Now get out."

America paused.

"Can I tell you something first?"

Canada seemed distracted.

"I'd rather you didn't." He looked to the window, squinting, straining, as though waiting for something; the swell of his saviours coming over the hill. "Just go, will you?"

"You're surrounded, Canada," America said gloomily; he reached for a chair and pulled it out. "I'm going to sit down, okay?"

"We pushed you back." Canada said this quickly, defensively. "Right back out of Ontario-"

"There are more of us than you'd think." America sat down. "More tanks, too. I wanted this to be easy on you, Canada - you just had to make it hard on yourself, didn't you?"

Canada snorted.

"You're an idiot," he scoffed. "You'll get cut off when England comes in behind you-"

"England's not coming, Canada," America said sharply; and this was a weight off his chest, he found.

Canada blinked at him.

"I… of course… of course he's coming!" he snapped, his fists clenching. "He wouldn't just let you invade me! Remember 1812?"

America shrugged uneasily.

"The world has changed a lot since then. I guess you don't matter too much to him anymore."

"You're lying!"

America sighed.

"I wish I was," he murmured, "because it would make picking him off that much easier if he were to come running to your rescue. But he's not coming to back you up - he's made that perfectly clear."

Canada simply stared at him, apparently at an utter loss for words. At length his gun fell to his side.

"I-I should talk to him," he said faintly. He glanced at the telephone on the desk, then looked pointedly, viciously, at his twin. "Will you allow that?"

"Yeah, that's okay." America nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Just make it quick - and then we can talk some more about your surrender."

Canada was just the beginning; though it had been expected that England would rally to his defence, he hadn't and it was to be assumed that he did not consider Canada's loss to be all that much of a casualty. Without England's back-up, Canada's own counterforces had been quickly overrun. That was fine in War Plan Red's book - the securing of Canada had been cheaper and had cost less men than originally expected and all in less than a month, too.

In the manner of a fox in its hole, however, it was proving harder than first imagined to lure England out. Though he had responded to the war declaration with one of his own, he and his forces had remained virtually static afterwards. Late in the autumn of '38, the American forces began attacks on the British West Indies, laying waste to the coasts of some of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean - Saint Kitts and Nevis, Bermuda, Barbados, Saint Lucia - and, most importantly, blocking shipping routes from Jamaica.

At this, at least, the British rallied, panicking over Jamaica and the millions they stood to lose if it was captured; and war in the Atlantic was at last engaged, months of stagnation at sea between massive fleets well-matched.

For the first weeks, America took to sitting on the deck of one of the largest destroyers, one arm flung over the rail, and allowed the sweet warm air, the scent of that banished paradise, to flood him. He had not seen England since that night and searching for him now on the decks of battleships proved fruitless and frustrating.

Perhaps he wasn't even there.

The unbearable damp heat of the tropics - since-captured Jamaica, in fact, England's once-prized possession; America, waiting, wilting, sat at the desk and watched the ceiling fan. He had seen this once before.

The memories didn't ache, exactly, because they were separated by a brand-new history, an entire rebranding of emotions; he didn't love England any longer, not like that, because in 1939 it was too early to know it-

And, chances were, that same 1942 would never happen. He couldn't remember, really, if he had been any happier then because he had no emotional attachment to the picture-book of has-been history in his head.

This, however, was new.

"It would not be an alliance, exactly," Germany said carefully. He looked uncomfortable in the heat, his neat hair and starched collar gleaming. "More an act of signing neutrality. My boss would… appreciate it."

"I'm not interested in your European wars," America sighed, looking to the window. "You know that."

"You are still fighting England."

"Not for much longer. I think he's gonna fold any day now. He's stubborn as hell but he doesn't have much money left."

Germany nodded.

"Well, that is good to hear," he admitted. "He and France had promised to prove an annoyance to me. It is a relief to know that he will be out of the running."

"He will be, you have my word." America toyed with the crumpled remains of a cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm going to bomb him to hell and back."

Germany was clearly taken aback; his pale blue eyes widened a little as he looked to America. He didn't say a word, however.

"I have to finish it properly, you know," America went on uninterestedly.

"I understand." Germany gave a nod. "I daresay that this will be a help to me. He has refused my offer to remain neutral."

"There won't be much left for you to leave untouched."

Germany fixed his tie.

"Then we have an arrangement? You will stay neutral on my terms?"

"Yeah, sure." America glanced lazily at him. "Why not?"

"There you are." America neatly stepped onto the back of the headless lion and stuck his hands in his pockets. "We're done here, right?"

In this history, he had not seen England since 1929; still, his memory insisted that it had been 1950. Either way, it had been a while. England was sitting on Nelson's Column - on Nelson himself, in fact, or what was left of him. The bombing had been merciless.

"I held back on the chemical weapons," America said. "Seemed pointless. You haven't got much fight left in you, huh?"

England looked up at him exhaustedly. His Browning was slung crookedly by the trigger from his forefinger and his hair was matted with blood.

"You might be surprised," he said coldly; but given that he made no attempt to even stand, America considered this his victory.

"Are you ready to surrender?" he asked. He hopped down off the lion's bronze back. "It's just I'm getting a bit bored with all this now."

England was quiet for a long moment, going about lighting himself up a smoke in a way that was suddenly and brilliantly familiar. They had talked about thousands of men on a beach last time.

"That's fair enough." England's breath rattled as he exhaled that first covetous cloud of smoke. "Truth be told, old boy, I was ready to surrender six months ago."

America's eyes narrowed.

"So why the fuck didn't you?" he demanded.

"Oh, you know me." England looked at his cigarette. "That's not my style."

"I hope you are satisfied with yourself," France said icily. "You were supposed to side with Angleterre and I as you did in 1917."

"Sorry," America sighed, "but I have my own agenda this time."

"Ah." France gave a snort of disgust. "One, I presume, which does not prevent the Axis Powers from taking the globe?"

"I'll get to that in my own time." America gave an impatient sigh. "Look, I know it's hard for you to understand but the Axis aren't the real problem, it's Russia and Communism-"

"Amerique, you bombed Angleterre into submission and handed his country over to Germany. You made no effort to help when I was invaded. You-"

"You're neither here nor there, France," America said coolly. "But England… I needed him out of the way. I can't have damned Empires fucking everything up like in 1919."

France gave him an ugly look.

"I would like to say very much that it will be on your own head," he spat, "but that is not the case. I have a swastika on my Eiffel Tower; Angleterre has one on Westminster. You have handed over the world to Nazi design."

America rolled his eyes.

"You make it sound like England was gonna single-handedly save the world from Germany," he muttered.

"He was the last thing between Nazi Europe and you."

America shrugged.

"I'm officially neutral. Big deal."

"So was Belgium."

Another shrug. France paused, seeing how little effect Belgium's tragic circumstances were having on America.

So then:

"You know that Russia and Japan have allied."

"They were already allied through Germany," America said dismissively.

"This is a separate alliance." France looked levelly, emotionlessly, at America when he at last turned to him with caution. "…Amerique, do not say that I did not warn you."

War Plan Red was supposed to run according to the Second World War in the First World; and so far, it seemed, it had gone off without a hitch. With England and his little island secure, unable to meddle or siphon American resources by way of whiny Lend-Lease, all Germany had to do was attack Russia - and then all America had to do was dive in, long before the advent of hydrogen bombs, and steal the victory. In a predetermined theatre of war, there were no rules, it seemed. Russia could be seized upon and there would be no questions asked; and, from there, the methodic stamping-out of Communism could begin. China was yet untainted, as were Korea and Vietnam; the spread could be stopped in its infancy.

But then Russia allied with Japan behind Germany's back and they struck first, late in 1940. Russia, in his position as Germany's ally, stormed Berlin - and Germany's armies, by now as far-spread as the British Isles, could not rally quickly enough to stave off the attack. It was a shock, naturally, but only three days later, Germany was forced to surrender and all of Europe fell squarely into the hands of the Communists.

Japan, true to form, attacked Pearl Harbour at the same time - but then kept going, swarming California and the entire west coast of the United States. Forced to return home to fight him out, America found himself in no position to aid Germany. Italy, as was his way, surrendered before America had even gotten off the continent and the Nazis were finished a full five years before they should have been.

Japan, America later found, had been a distraction; he was easy to stave off, far easier than he really ought to have been, and in just a few weeks had retreated again. By this time, of course, Russia was mobilising: England had been a great naval power for a reason and Russia was putting his inheritance to good use.

The Red began to rise along the horizon of the Second World and America readied himself for a fight which, by now, he knew he couldn't win.

"Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?"

It was night; but there was no shiny car and America was not going anywhere. It was horribly familiar, in fact, that he had nowhere left to run. He looked up, hunched on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, to see England standing at the foot of them.

"What?" he asked. "That's a weird thing to say."

England shrugged.

"I suppose," he admitted, "given that the last time I saw you was in Westminster, remember, when I could barely hold a pen and you were making me sign my surrender-"

"Oh, don't." America buried his face again. "Please don't. I was wrong. We were all so godawfully wrong about everything…"

"It was a quote," England said, shaking off America's guilty admission. "By one of yours. You don't know him yet."

"What do you want, England?" America looked at him, then let his gaze drift out past him, over the Mall and out towards the tall thin shape of the Washington Memorial like a thin line of chalk on black. "What are you doing here?"

"You were wrong," England said simply. "That's why I'm here."

"I didn't mean to be," America said desperately. "I was just… just trying to help, I didn't want any more people to die-"

"Ah, yes, you've always been noble like that," England interrupted calmly. "Or, at least, you like to think so; not that it stopped you from wiping out one third of my population." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nonetheless, I didn't come to dwell with you on such things. It won't put anything right and I… well, I don't know how much time we have, of course."

"You can't change anything," America said bitterly. "Not now - with Russia the most powerful nation in the world."

"Yes I can," England countered calmly, "because, you see, you were so very, very wrong."

America, unarmed, with the bayonet inches from his throat. Something in him, maybe memory, told him that England wouldn't dare.

"I don't think I can be any more mistaken than you were," England said blandly-

And he took the shot.

The quote 'Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?' is by Jack Kerouac of On The Road fame. Bearing in mind that Kerouac, a founder of the Beat Generation, was active in the 1950s and 1960s, long after even the original 1950 setting of this story, you may make of the supposedly-Second World England quoting him in 1941 what you will. :3

Happy 4th July!

xXx