A/N: This is just a short little thing I wrote for the kink meme a while back, and I figured I might as well share it because I'm actually sort of fond of it.

WARNING: mpreg imagine spot

America thinks about things too much. No really, he does! It's just that it's usually not about balancing budgets or alternative fuel source or protecting the environment or all those other things that should be his government's job, really. He's not one of those guys who always has a plan. He's not like Germany, where he can sit down with a piece of paper and come up with all the answers. He's a dreamer and has been for longer than he could remember. He loves to think of impossible things and immerse himself in what could happen if they were real, maybe even sometimes coming up with ways that they might be someday. There have always been people around to tell him to stop it, to get his head out of the clouds and use his creative streak for something worthwhile.

Well, to him it already is worthwhile. Every time that he just lets go of reality is a time that cements his identity. Sometimes it's an opportunity to test himself to see what he really can do, other times it's a way to escape the pressing matters of now and see the light left in a world that loves to focus on darkness.

Like now. Now is a great example. He's just lying in bed with England. Normally he'll look at all of the adorable little details England won't let him pay attention to during the day, like the light freckles across his cheek and nose, his short thick eyelashes and his slightly-chapped lips, but today's different. He pulls England close and splays his fingers across his lover's belly. England squirms a little bit, but soon finds a comfortable position again and calms down.

He buries his nose in England's hair and thinks of what it'd be like for that firm stomach to get big and round. He knows nations don't actually bare children, that they just sort of appear and aren't really related at all and that even if they did it would probably still only be the female nations who got pregnant and to make it worse America tends to be on the receiving end but none of it matters. Logic can come later.

All that matters now is what he sees in his mind's eye: his England all swollen, hand on his belly as he feels America's child kicking. He's sitting on a rocking chair in front of a fire, quilt spread across his lap, a half-knitted hat on his thigh as he pets his own stomach. Oh, it makes America shudder pleasantly and hold his blissfully unaware partner closer.

America was just watching, but he decides that he'd rather be part of the fantasy. It is his kid after all. He peeks around the door, just wanting to watch England be so in love with their unborn baby for a little longer. He deices he can't wait anymore and comes over, his socks making next to no noise on the carpet. He hugs England from behind, arms just above his belly. Wow, he's gotten so big! America can hardly believe how close he is to being a dad (well, really he can't because he's not, but reality can stuff it when his brain is full of a cute pregnant England). England turns his head and they kiss, soft and warm and pleasant. America helps England to his feet and leads him to the sofa. It's a big sofa, so even with England's tummy way out there there's plenty of room to snuggle. America puts the quilt over the both of them and they fall asleep.

The real England takes that chance of a blur in America's fantasy to let him know he's awake, turning over and looking up at him with a sleepy smile on his face. It draws him back to the here and now, and he doesn't think he's felt this in love in ages.

Usually he's got better control than this. Usually once he decides he needs to stay in the real world he does, but this time his thoughts won't leave him alone. A little while ago he and England were just hanging out like they did most of the time they were together, and all America could see when he closed his eyes was an England so pregnant he could go into labor any minute. Fresh air, he decided, was what they needed so they went for a walk in the park.

Bad idea, he realizes now that they're sitting on a bench by the playground, really bad idea. There are kids everywhere, maybe fifteen of them. Maybe if he counted them he could stop pretending that there were two more: a pair of perfect little boys (because giving either of them a girl could only result in disaster). They'd be twins like him and Canada: similar bodies but slightly different faces and hair and stuff.

The older one would be like him, America decides. He'd be all hyper and just excited to be alive. Blue eyes would probably be more fitting than green, but he had to have mom's hair (heh, England would kill him for calling him mom, but he'd probably kill him for getting him pregnant in the first place, so…) It was just so soft and America loved the darker, subtler color. He should have England's face too because it's shorter and rounder and so damn cute. Oh, and it'd be so hilarious if he had his temper. He'd be in the middle of showing off his plan of how to save the world and then someone would say something and BAM! He'd go off.

No, no, he is not doing this. This is what preteen girls do when they start being attracted to boys. He's a fully grown man, dammit.

…

That would make the younger one quieter, probably. Of course, if you put him and England together there'd be no way they'd make an actual quiet kid. Maybe he'd be crafty and snarky: the real brains of the operation and not letting anyone who actually listened to his deadpanning forget it. He'd have to get England's huge green eyes because they're too damn pretty not to pass on.

Goddamn it! He shakes his head, trying to make the thoughts go away.

"Oi, don't do that. It causes your tiny brain fly about inside your skull cavity and we don't want it getting even more damaged."

"Thanks. Glad to know you got my back, honey."

England just smiles and turns back to the kids.

Aw, hell they'd be so cute: the older one dragging his brother all around. He really should make up names-

No, no he shouldn't. He's in public and he gets all derpy whenever he daydreams.

"Come on," he says, standing, "I'm getting bored just sitting here."

England sighs but gets to his feet, "Whatever. It's not as though we were in the middle of an enthralling conversation anyway."

They'd call the kids over then. They wouldn't want to go but America could bribe them with ice cream. England would sigh and complain about something: either ice cream being fattening or having to deal with hyperactive children for the rest of the day. America would just brush him off like he always did. After all, he should be able to spoil his babies every now and then.

He wonders what it would be like to hold a child's hand in his. He's never actually been close to a kid. His protectorates were pretty much all older than him, and even if they weren't he didn't take them in until they were at least teenagers. He's seen normal, functional families from afar, but it's not like he's ever been a part of one.

He watches a young couple walk by with their three(-ish) year-old daughter between them, each holding one of her hands. They're all smiling and laughing.

Really now? Really?

England reaches out and takes his hand. He intertwines their fingers and gives his hand a little squeeze. America smiles and squeezes back.

He knows he can't have his dream family, but at least he has England.