March 19, 1945

Bad Kreuznach was a beautiful place, America decided, holstering his gun and looking around at the German architecture with a smile.

Of course, his good mood was probably related mostly to how it was Nazi-free at this point and victory was clearly on the forecast as much as fine weather and rising temperatures. The Germans were clearly beating a hasty retreat; they had crossed the Rhine in order to avoid falling into American hands and try to reorganize, but the writing on the wall was pretty damn clear.

If they have any sense at all, they'll figure out that it's either going to be me or the so-called Soviet Union, and I know who I'd pick, America thought grimly, turning around a corner and looking up at the old brick houses that lined the streets. Any ally in war is better than no ally - as England often told him, dark eyes haunted and throwing quiet barbs over the fire regarding America's late entry into the war - but the Soviet Union was clearly a crazy fucker.

America was mostly smug.

"Sir?" a member of his squad asked, jolting him from his thoughts. "Which house?"

When stationing in towns that had been deNazified, the custom was to pick one, give the inhabitants 15 minutes to clear out, and use the house. This made America's guts squirm a bit as this was technically a violation of the Quartering Act and felt a bit wrong, but to hell with it. This wasn't the Constitution, this wasn't home, and it was a total war.

At least he wasn't going in, raping the inhabitants, plundering the whole damn place and then burning it to the ground, America thought, snorting at the image of the Soviet Union in his head.

"This one's fine," America said, pointing to a random house and walking up, knocking loudly on the door.

It took a while, but finally a feminine voice softly inquired in German on the other side of the door. Yes? Please don't hurt us.

As much as the rest of the world liked to constantly underestimate him for some reason, America actually could speak a variety of languages quite well and wasn't a total dumbfuck. Surprise, surprise, Germany, Italy, and Japan, you bastards. We're not going to hurt you. We do need to use your house, though. We will give you 15 minutes to pack up and leave. If you do, you will not be hurt.

There was a pause, and then the door swung open, revealing a thin, brown-haired woman of maybe 25… and her six children cowering behind her.

Oh. Well. This doesn't make me look like a total motherfucker, America thought, staring down at the huge brood of what were probably tiny Nazis, but bore more resemblance at the moment to terrified kittens eyeing a Doberman.

"Sir?" one of the squad members asked. "Uh, we could get another house."

You can come in if you want, the brown-haired woman said, eying the squad with quiet fear, but keeping her composure as none of the men looked like they were going to turn into Soviet rapists. But, please, won't you let us stay? We won't… can't… hurt you and we have nowhere to go.

America inhaled. So long as you don't get in our way, he responded. "No," he said in English to his men. "She said we can stay. Since she's got a fuckin' litter, I told her that she could stay as well. No looting, and don't break anything."

The woman shook her head and then opened the door, murmuring quietly to her children that it would be all right. America and the rest of the squad moved into the house; it was quite sparsely furnished, but very clean and tidy. The men groaned as they flopped into chairs and onto the floor of the prim living room, eagerly unlacing their jackboots and divesting themselves of pounds of gear.

…the room suddenly filled with music. America looked around to see the brown-haired lady stepping away from a gramophone as Wagner filled the room, eliciting confused reactions from the men.

"Look at this, all civil," one of the men, Johnson, snorted. "Here we are, just paying a nice visit to some German bitch."

"Her pussy's probably the size of a Tiger tank with all those kids she's dropped out," another, Fuchs, said, sighing as he removed sweaty socks. The house was quickly beginning to stink of soldier, and America rolled his eyes.

If the brown-haired woman minded, though, she didn't say anything, instead sticking her head around the doorframe into the living room and looking over at America, correctly guessing that he was the only one that spoke any German. Are you hungry?

America blinked, and the men fell silent at the surprised look that came across their commander's face. Always, he responded.

I have flour and butter; I was planning on making pancakes for dinner, the brown-haired woman explained, her pale lips turning up into a small smile. I can't feed all of your men… but if you wanted some, I wouldn't mind.

Well, fuck. A home-cooked meal. America would kill for that. Actually, to a certain extent, he was kind of up to his neck in killing so he could go home and have one of those.

"Gentlemen, I leave you to it," he announced. It's likely that they would believe he was going to go smash her Tiger tank, which would be acceptable. Announcing that he was getting pancakes while everybody else was stuck with C-rations would not be.

This got a bunch of cheers and whistles from the squad, who laughed and settled in to the living room for the night. If the brown-haired woman deduced what they were thinking she didn't say anything, instead motioning for America to follow her to the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was small and warm, and three of the six children - the youngest - were sitting at the table. They looked at America with wide-eyes. The older three were quickly making pancakes. When the brown-haired woman said that America was joining them for dinner, they looked over at him with surprise, but nodded obediently.

When the brown-haired woman motioned him to sit at the table, America did, looking at the children who were staring at him as if he were a total alien. After a moment, he managed to give the little bastards a small smile. Christ, the three kids at the table couldn't have been any older than five.

I don't bite, he assured the little ones. They tipped their heads curiously at him.

The Fuehrer says that you're a mongoloid barbarian, the little girl said, completely free of anything resembling actual guile. But you don't look like it.

Fucking hell. When America got to Berlin he was going to e pluribus unum all over Hitler's stupid bitch-ass mustache.

Gretchen, enough, that's very rude, the brown-haired woman said before America could appropriately respond. She place a mug of something hot in front of America - tea. Please forgive her, the brown-haired woman said, looking at America, the faint pall of fear over her face again. Obviously, she knew she didn't want to piss him off. She's…

She's a child, America said. He wasn't going to deck a four-year-old in braids, for crying out loud. He looked down at the tea. If England had given it to him - which England wouldn't, given the rationing - he probably would have poured it next to his chair just to yank England's chain. However, he knew that tea was rare for civilians these days, and being given a cup was quite the gesture.

Besides, he'd drank enough shitty coffee by now to know how to deal with it. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out three of the bottomless packets of sugar that any grunt in the US forces carried about. He flicked the paper packages absently, and dumped the whole lot into his drink.

This was when he realized that everybody else in the room had frozen and was staring at the sugar packets like he'd just pulled out the Holy Grail. Oh. Right. Because of their fucking brainless murdering marauding leaders, they probably hadn't seen any in a while.

America hesitated in that moment - it would be easy to just let it slide, to drink his extravagant sugar-water and not address it (You don't even have sugar, Germany. You don't have tanks, you don't have men, you don't have shit), but it did seem churlish. Since the Third Reich seemed to want to self-implode rather than be reasonable and surrender, these people were probably going to senselessly die.

America himself had gunned down 12-year-old boys armed with crossbows. The Volkssturm, or "old men and children that are supposed to somehow stop the United States, British Empire, and Soviet Union armed with nothing but pitchforks and Nazism" was just horrifying in its utter stupidity and waste. Little girls were even starting to appear, small dead bodies next to their machine guns, hair in braids and soaked in blood.

This war was so stupid. So goddamn stupid.

America reached into his pocket and picked up a handful of sugar packets, putting them on the table. You can have them, I have plenty, he told the shocked family.

And that's how America ended up eating pancakes with a German family in the dying days of WWII. The pancakes themselves were goddamn delicious, crispy at the ends and fluffy in the middle, soaked with butter and sprinkled with sugar. The brown-haired woman seemed satisfied enough to continue pumping out stacks and stacks of them until America finally was able to stop eating them. (He could have eaten more. However, he was aware that his appetite was unnatural and didn't want to cause the family to starve to death.)

After dinner, America was served another cup of tea and the woman hurriedly ushered the kids from the kitchen before any of them could spout more Nazi crap. America drank his tea and looked up at her when she came back in.

I'm a seamstress for a living, she said, apparently apropos of nothing, sitting across from him.

Oh? America asked over the lip of his mug.

She gave him another tired smile. Any German civilian he interacted with these days just looked tired. A far cry from the frenzied attitude he'd seen in the recordings at the beginning of all this stupid shit. Slowly, she leaned forward, carefully reaching her hand out for his sleeve. When America didn't negatively react, her small fingers brushed over a tear in his uniform. She looked up at him.

America's eyes followed the woman's fingers, and then he looked back up at her. You don't have to do that, he said at length, not sure how to respond to a German woman wanting to sew a tear in his American uniform.

I know, she responded, sitting back in her chair. Wordlessly, she held out her hands for him to pass the jacket over.

America paused. "I'll be damned," he muttered in English, before shrugging out of the jacket and handing it over. The woman reached down and pulled up a sewing kit from next to the kitchen table.

Carefully and expertly, she stitched together the tear on the left shoulder, and slowly examined the rest of the jacket. It was getting dirt all over her pristine kitchen floor, but she didn't seem to mind. When she started to reinforce his Third Battalion and Eleventh Infantry patches, you could have knocked America over with a feather.

This goddamned war is stupid, America thought, not for the first time since he'd been in it. She sewed in silence. When she was done, she handed it over and he took it from her.

…why? he managed.

She pursed her lips. I know what's happening in the east, she said after a moment.

Yeah, that's where crazy ol' Ivan was busy raping, pillaging, and burning the place and Germans were committing suicide in droves. Meanwhile, American soldiers could be perfectly content with pancakes. Made sense.

I want this to be over, the woman continued, looking up, her hands clenched in loose, helpless fists. I don't care anymore. I want my children to live. Most of us don't care anymore. Those who do are either young and know no better, or are insane.

America nodded slowly. We want this to be over, too, he said.

He slept in the living room that night, his fixed jacket under his head.

# # #

The following day, America's squad left Bad Kreuznach and passed into Nierstein; Nierstein was even more beautiful than Bad Kreuznach had been. Old wine country, one of the men familiar with the geography had commented. Obviously, it wasn't producing much of anything these days.

It had been rather quiet. In fact, the only German soldiers their squad encountered surrendered immediately upon seeing them and crossing the Rhine had been laughably easy. The captured Nazi soldiers seemed relieved. America got wind that the squads further upstream hadn't been so lucky; they'd lost some men and had to return fire in order to make it across.

The next duty was to fan out around the area and clear the woods of any remaining Nazi bastard soldiers. The captured Nazis had told them there weren't any, but they were Nazis and not exactly a highly trusted source of information.

America took silent steps into the forest, his ears on high alert for sounds. Most of what he could hear was birdsong and the occasional crunch of boots he knew were his men (being a nation came in handy sometimes). The sun was in the sky and the trees were starting to bloom.

America really hoped this would all be over soon.

Suddenly, movement from behind a tree. America froze, his finger tightening on the trigger in his Garand-

The figure in front of him was not one of his - America recognized one of the crap field-gray uniforms given to those dumbass Volksstrum "soldiers" and America was a hair's breath from pumping the owner full of hot, Grade A American lead when-

He suddenly realized it wasn't a man standing in front of him. It wasn't even a woman.

It was a nation.

It was Germany.

Shock stilled him, and while America still held up the gun, he stared while Germany, dressed in the colors of the Volksstrum (and why the hell wasn't he still in his SS uniform?) and armed with, of all damn things, a musket.

A musket. A single-shot musket.

Unsurprisingly, Germany did not look good. He always had been a tall, broad bastard, but he was gaunt in the cheeks and very pale. His poorly-made uniform was covered in mud, and the armband marking him as a member of the Volksstrum had come half-detached and waved limply at his arm. Slowly, while America kept the gun trained on him, Germany bent down wordlessly, set the musket upon the ground, and stood up. He and America locked eyes before Germany slowly raised his hands, and stepped back from the outdated firearm.

What. The. Fuck.

"What the fuck," America said, gun still up, voicing his exact sentiment on the situation. Here he was in the middle of nowhere in the woods with Nazi Germany standing not ten feet away from him. "Unless my marching orders are way the hell off, this is not Berlin."

Germany kept his hands in the air, and took a breath. "I left Berlin two days ago," he responded, in English that sounded a little choked and rusty… America didn't think he'd been speaking it very much these past few years. Inferior language and all that rot he'd been shoving down the throat of kids like Gretchen.

"Why," America asked flatly, no upswing on the question. The wind rustled the trees.

Germany closed his eyes, swallowed. "Mein Fuehrer- my boss wants to kill me."

Uh. "Adolf Hitler wants to kill Germany," America said. "Well, he's doing a pretty damn good job of it, I'd say. Though I didn't think that was his original plan. Seemed pretty busy trying to murder the fuck out of everybody else."

Germany's mouth seemed to tremble. Fuck, was America seriously having this conversation right now? "He has… given an order. The order is called…" Germany paused here, likely trying to translate, "…Demolitions on Reich Territory Decree." He swallowed. "As the Soviet Union, British Empire, and you are… very close… mein Fu- my boss does not want industry to fall into your hands. He wants to burn it all."

…America had to process this. "So Hitler wants to do to you what the Soviet Union is doing to you," he summed up, absolutely stunned. What a crazy bastard. Hitler had to know that if he purposefully destroyed Germany, the survivors wouldn't even be able to-

Germany would die. It would be in worse shape than it had been after the first World War. Everybody would starve. There would be nothing… not that there was much as it stood, given that both America and England had been firebombing the hell out of the place.

(I want this to be over, the brown-haired woman had said. I don't care anymore. I want my children to live.)

Germany hadn't responded, but his head was bent, his hands clenched in those same, loose, helpless fists that the brown-haired woman had.

"I ought to let you die," America said after a moment, not having lowered the gun one iota. "Have you seen the death camps, you stupid racist fuck? Have you smelled them? I ought to shove human ash into your throat until you choke, sterilize you, cut you open for medical experiments, and then send you to Ivan to have him finish the job." As much as America disliked the Soviet Union, he knew perfectly well that what Ivan was doing now was only payback for what Germany had done to him.

When America had finished, he was somewhat shocked to see wetness on Germany's too-thin face. Germany didn't speak, but he nodded.

"I'm sorry," he managed after a moment. His eyes opened again, ice-blue irises wet with tears. His eyes wouldn't meet America's.

Stupid fucking bastard. As if he had a right to cry. This whole blood-soaked sham was his own damn fault!

(I want this to be over-)

"You're sorry," America repeated, every single one of his dead sons on the beaches of Normandy in the syllable. "You are sorry. Sorry. Oh, that's all fucking great, the Nazi who said sorry. That fixes everything! That brings back the dead!" His hands were starting to shake on the gun; he had to steady them. "I'm sure the Soviet Union will enjoy his twenty-freakin'-million dead civilians and soldiers back, and England'll be just thrilled that London popped itself out of the fucking ground!"

Germany continued to cry, but he managed to keep it out of his voice. "London was a mistake," he rasped, his eyes flinching shut, as if he'd been struck.

"Yeah, you say that now-"

"It was," Germany interrupted him. "A plane got lost and dropped… dropped the bombs in the w-wrong place. T-then England bombed Berlin, and…"

Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ on a flaming pogo stick. Europe bombed the hell out of itself over a mistake?

This war was goddamn stupid. "Even if that's true, it doesn't make anything better," America said through clenched teeth.

Germany shook his head. "It doesn't," he responded, face wet, voice low.

"Why did you come find me?" America asked suddenly, changing the topic.

"I came to surrender to you," Germany responded, managing to meet America's eyes for the first time. America about expired on the spot.

(I don't care anymore-)

"You don't have the authority to do that," America responded immediately. "Hitler and his pack of cronies have to do it. And it has to be unconditional. And put on a goddamn piece of paper and official."

Germany shook his head. "I, Ludwig Beilschmidt, surrender to Alfred Jones," he said, his hand carefully indicating the musket on the ground. "I do not need politics for that."

America, for once, was shocked silent.

Germany took a breath. "You are my best option."

(I want my children to live.)

…all things considered, this was true. America's forces were overall less hostile to the idea of Germans than either England or the Soviet Union were, likely because they hadn't had millions die and their homes ravaged by them. America still hadn't spoken when a voice came from behind.

"Sir, we haven't- holy shitballs!"

Suddenly, the rest of America's squad surrounded America and Germany, and there was a simultaneous rattle of guns being position to fire.

Don't speak in English, America said quickly, holding up a hand so that his soldiers wouldn't shoot Germany's balls off. Germany nodded, and was silent, raising his hands in the 'surrender' position again.

"Oh, fuck, if there's one of these asswipes, there's like fifty others," Fuchs groaned from America's side. "I was really hoping to get through today without having to shoot little girls and old men."

"How in the fuck is this guy in the civilian army, though?" another soldier, Smith, asked. Smith was a bit brighter than the average bulb, which was usually quite helpful but wasn't at the moment. "He's not an old man or a little girl. Why isn't he in the Wehrmacht or Luffwaffe or something?"

"He's crying like a girl, though," Johnson pointed out, getting dark chuckles from the rest of the men.

Germany obviously fully understood what they were saying, but did not react. You can tell them I was working for the rail system, he said quietly, his voice far more fluid in German. They weren't conscripted.

"He told me he was working for the rail system," America immediately translated. "That's why he's in the Volkssturm."

"Sir, are you sure?" Smith asked, being his too-smart self. "I don't trust him. Have you checked him for other weapons?"

"…no," America admitted. He had been far too distracted, and at this point he was quite positive that Germany didn't have any. He couldn't explain this to the humans, though.

"Strip him," Johnson said with a shrug. "He's basically wearing rags anyhow."

Here was a dilemma. Strip-searching prisoners was common, since with suicide bombers and whatever being deployed, you never knew who had a bomb up their ass. It was also common amusement for soldiers who didn't mind inflicting a bit of humiliation onto the enemy who had likely killed their friends at some point.

But this wasn't a common soldier. It was the nation of Germany. America didn't say anything for a moment. "Give him the chance to do it himself," he said. "He hasn't been violent; he put down his gun before I made him do it." He switched to German. You're going to have to do it. If I stop them, they're going to know you aren't common.

…also, America couldn't deny that there was a base thrill to this. He was going to have Nazi Germany naked, at gunpoint, in the middle of the woods.

Germany slowly nodded, and his hands went to the buttons of his uniform jacket. Slowly, methodically, he removed it and set it on the ground. Next went the threadbare shirt underneath it.

His squad murmured in surprise. Germany looked like he had been beaten with a baseball bat. His entire torso was black and blue; he was covered with angry red weals and scars and burns. He was far too thin: America could count his ribs.

"Looks like somebody got to this asshole before we did," a soldier named Kurtz remarked.

Germany had bent over to untie his boots and remove them. "He said he ran into some Russians and managed to escape," America lied. "He went west until he found American troops."

This was at least sort of true. Germany stepped out of his boots, and removed his torn trousers. His legs were as beaten as the rest of him. At this point he paused, looking uncertainly up at America, standing there in green socks with holes in them and ripped skivvies in the middle of the forest, surrounded by enemy soldiers, held up at gunpoint.

The only surrender that would be accepted was unconditional. America nodded his head slightly, and Germany peeled off the socks, one by one. Away went the skivvies.

Put your hands on your head and turn in a circle, America ordered calmly, feeling like he was having an out-of-body experience.

Germany, naked and helpless, took a breath and then obeyed. His hands rested on his dirty blond head, exposing himself completely to the entire squad.

"Hey, Sir, have him kneel," Johnson suggested.

America tore his eyes away from the display in front of him. "What for?"

Johnson rolled his eyes. He was a bit of a vulgar dickhead, really, but a dead-eye shot. "I'm not going to hurt him. Or at least, not like the Russians did."

If Germany had been a common civilian, America wouldn't have done what he did. But Germany wasn't. Kneel, America ordered.

Germany obeyed. His expression hadn't changed, but America noticed that he was breathing faster, and as a nation he could smell the beginnings of fear.

Johnson shifted his kit a bit on his body. "This is for my brother, you Nazi fuck," he announced.

And then Johnson whipped out his dick and started to piss on the side of Germany's head. America raised his eyebrows as the stream slapped just outside of Germany's ear, causing backspray. Johnson took a step to the side, and wiggled himself so that urine would splatter all over Germany's face and down his naked body.

Germany stayed as still as a statue other than to wince his eyes closed when the liquid hit him.

America simply stared. This amused the men, who laughed. When Johnson was done, Kurtz stepped up.

One by one, the men went up and pissed all over Germany, soaking him. When the last of the men were finished, Germany was as wet as if he had jumped in a lake. The reek of ammonia hung heavy in the air, and Germany's beaten body was trembling.

(I want this to be over-)

"You're the last one up, sir," Smith said cheerfully.

America didn't take his eyes off Germany. "I don't have to piss," he said abruptly. "The rest of you, continue to scout to see if this one's got friends. I don't think he does, though, so report back to camp in one hour if none are found. I'll take him back."

Johnson had rolled his eyes at America's refusal to participate, but didn't argue with his superior. "Are you sure you should take him alone?"

America snorted. "If you think I can't handle a beaten, naked, piss-soaked man, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. Smith's in charge. Now go be fucking useful for once."

The men chuckled, and started to fan back out into the forest. Germany hadn't moved from his bent position on the ground.

America finally, finally lowered the weapon. He walked over and picked up Germany's musket… it wasn't even operable. It had been rusted into a useless piece of iron. America snorted and shook his head. Germany was silent and unmoving other than the urine dripping from his hair.

Get up, America ordered in German, just in case any of his men happened to overhear. There's a stream a mile back where you can bathe. I assume you don't want to put on your clothes right now.

Germany nodded obediently and rose, mud clinging to his naked shins, and went to collect his clothing, which he held in his hands. America stood behind him, and raised the gun at Germany's back.

Walk, he commanded simply, and Germany did. America was mildly worried about running into another squad of friendlies while marching a naked, urine-soaked man through the forest (officially frowned upon), but the forest was silent and they ran into no one.

The water in the stream they arrived at after a mile of silent walking was probably cold, but being piss-soaked was clearly more unpleasant since Germany didn't even grimace at the temperature as he splashed it all over his body, dunking his head underwater to clean his hair. America watched him while leaning against a tree.

When he was done, Germany was openly shivering and goosebumps exploded across his skin. America leaned forward and offered him a handkerchief. I don't have my whole kit with me since our camp is further back, he explained.

Germany looked at the handkerchief before taking it with a nod. Thank you, he said, sounding subdued. He dried himself off as well as he could with the scrap before putting back on his uniform. …may I ask you a question?

America raised his eyebrow at the deference… and realized that Germany was using formal speech with him now. America had been using informal. Interesting. Yes, America replied.

Germany looked up, his face red with scrubbing. Why didn't you? he asked simply.

(I don't care anymore-)

America looked at him for a moment before turning around to face the tree that he'd been leaning against, and pissing on it.

Germany was silent and so was America until he was done. America turned around.

Because I didn't have to piss, he responded. We're going back to camp.

# # #

Getting back to camp was relatively uneventful, once he'd communicated with superiors about, uh, the situation. Thank God for radio. Obviously, Germany couldn't be lumped in with the general POW population. High Command agreed that if anybody would be able to contain a nation it would be another nation, so America was to take Germany back across the Rhine to Nierstein and stay with him there until further details had been arranged.

Frankly, it was a bit confusing, since nobody had ever heard of a nation personification surrendering separately prior to its government's surrender. But this war was goddamn stupid.

Whatever. At least America didn't have to worry about being shot at this time as he crossed the Rhine in his boat with Germany sitting silently in front of him, head bowed.

In Nierstein, America chose a two-room house and kicked an old couple out of it. While Germany hadn't shown any inclination toward violence or deceit at all (he had let a bunch of guys piss on him, for fuck's sake), he didn't want to give Germany the opportunity to be alone or isolated easily.

He instructed Germany to sit in one of the wooden chairs in the main room. Germany obeyed, and America pulled out two C-ration cans, and set them on the table.

"Do you want 'Meat & Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce' or 'Pork and Rice'?" America asked wearily, sick to death of these things. However, it had been an eventful day and America would figure out what could be bought fresh in the morning. This would do for tonight. He had switched back to English since he wasn't going to speak Germany's damn Nazi language if he didn't have to.

Germany looked over at the rations. "Whichever one you do not wish," he said, submissively switching over to English, voice quiet. His stomach audibly growled, though. He probably hadn't had much to eat lately, if he'd been fleeing Berlin alone.

America handed him over the spaghetti can. "Both are pretty shit," he said with a shrug. "If you're hungry, though, they work."

Germany looked at the ration can before figuring out how to open it. (This didn't take Germany that long, though; America was well-aware the Kraut was good with spatial reasoning.) He nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said, and they ate their meals in silence.

Once done, America looked at Germany for a long moment, while Germany looked wordlessly back. Reaching into his pocket, he offered Germany a cigarette, and Germany accepted.

After lighting his own and tossing the matchbook over to Germany, America exhaled a cloud of hazy blue smoke and tapped the ash into the empty ration can. "This war isn't going to last much longer," he said absently.

Germany smoked by holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "Anybody with eyes knows that," he said after a moment. He shook his head. "Rommel and Rundstedt wanted to surrender after your D-Day," he said.

America raised an eyebrow. "No shit," he remarked. Well. Wouldn't that have been nice.

Germany sighed and shook his head. "I still remember the… talk… when Wilhelm asked Rundstedt what could be done about the Allied advance." He closed his eyes, and produced a slight smile that held no mirth. "Rundstedt said, 'Make peace, you fools. What else can you do?' But, mein F- my boss said, 'Nein, do not worry.'"

"Somebody should have put a fucking bullet in your boss' brain," America said, shaking his head around his plume of smoke. "He's mad as a hatter."

Another not-humorous curl of Germany's lip. "Many tried," he said. "That is why Rommel is dead now."

America was silent for a moment. "I don't understand how you ever let this happen. The Nazis seem to kill more of their own off than anybody else, and they're a damn sight good at killing everybody else off."

Germany's eyes turned off to the side. "When you are starving, when you are desperate, when you don't know what to do next… when a strong man comes into the picture… charismatic man, when he speaks your heart flows once more… when he brings you bread, and industry, and identity, and hope, and land, and sings only to your glory when nobody has in over a decade… when you are angry at the way the rest of the world is, well, pissing on you-" his eyes flicked up to America and his lip ticked, "-you might be surprised what you would let happen. And how fast you lose control, first to yourself, then to your enemies."

Another moment of pregnant silence. "None of that is an excuse," America said after a moment. "Not for any of this shit."

"I know," Germany replied, after a inhale of his cigarette. His lips worked for a moment. "I am afraid," he said softly.

"If I were you, I'd be afraid too," America said with a nod of his head. He dropped his finished cigarette into the ration can and picked up another one, tossing the pack on the table with a hand motion, indicating that Germany could have another if he liked. Germany obviously was no fool; he accepted.

"I am wondering what my punishment shall be this time," he said softly. "And if this will only happen again."

America raised his eyebrows. "This is never happening again," he informed the other. "Never. I'm not going to let it."

Germany appeared to carefully consider him. "So you will not be isolationist again?"

America wasn't about to reveal a scrap of his actual plan to Germany, but there was no harm in stating the truth: "No," he said decidedly. "Last time I left you dumbfuck Europeans to your own devices, we ended up with this. I think you've sufficiently proven you don't get control of the world anymore."

Germany lit his second cigarette and leaned back in his chair, looking a bit amused. "This is why I surrendered to you," he said, blowing smoke. "I think you may be the only one who, despite everything, doesn't want to piss on me."

# # #

There was only one bed in the house, and even though it was a double like hell America was literally sleeping with the enemy. They made Germany a bed on the floor out of extra pillows and blankets they found around the house and went to sleep.

America was woken up by Germany making quiet choked noises on the ground. This was easily recognizable: it was the sound of crying. His own men did it often enough in the night: homesick, terrified, traumatized, lonely, sometimes hungry and injured. Hell, he'd even done it himself before. America's eyes opened and he stared at the unfamiliar ceiling for a few moments, wondering if he should just ignore it.

(I want my children to live.)

It was in that moment that America knew he would eventually have to forgive Germany. He sure as shit wasn't about to do it right now - they were still in the middle of a war and America was darn sure he was going to lose a sight more men in the process of it - but he would have to. There were many reasons that the Treaty of Versailles failed, but the principle reason it did was the malice that ran in its veins. Nobody forgave after the Great War; there had been far too much carnage, too much bloodshed, too many youths bleeding out in No Man's Land, prey to vicious machine gun fire. Everybody had wanted vengeance.

Vengeance wasn't worth it. It felt good at the time, maybe, when you're pissing on an undefended naked enemy just because you can; however, it's not worth it if those you piss on decide they're tired of it and everybody ends up goddamn dead.

America thought he really should be a poet. Shakespeare could go fuck himself.

"Germany," he said into the darkness; the quiet sobbing ceased. "Germany, get on the bed."

There was a pause, and then America could see Germany's too-thin figure rise from the floor and perch on the edge of the bed, cautious.

"I don't forgive you," America said abruptly. "There are some things you've done I won't ever forgive you for. You don't deserve it. But it's not as though the rest of us are goddamn angels either. I'm not going to get a fucking Peace Prize for what I did to Hamburg and Dresden and certainly not for all the shit I'm doing and going to do to Japan. England's just as bad and the Soviet Union is fucking batshit. But none of us are fundamentally bad. You are not fundamentally bad. I let my men piss on you because they didn't know who you were and I did. I didn't piss on you for the exact same reason. None of us are going to ever be able to stop these stupid terrifying wars if we can't move on and I can't do this for eternity, Ludwig, I can't. Humans at least die. I can't do this forever, and neither can you."

Germany was quiet; America could see him occasionally wiping at his face. When America was done, he nodded slowly. "I can't," he whispered, throat clearly too thick with tears to say more.

"Come here," America said, and opened his arms.

Germany crawled over and rested his face against America's bare shoulder, his big, too-thin hands grasping at America's far-better-fed biceps. America held him as he wept like a heartbroken man, which he likely was: after a while the other nation's open-mouthed sobbing was starting to get to him and his own eyes teared up.

I believed it, Germany finally managed between chokes, and America let him speak in German since he was probably too upset for English. I believed all of it. I believed in him. It was a lie. All of it was a terrible, terrible lie and it's ruined me, it's made me a monster.

America reached up a hand and brushed back Germany's (thankfully no longer piss-soaked) hair while swallowing the lump that threatened in his throat.

(I want this to be over, the brown-haired woman had said. I don't care anymore. I want my children to live.)

We want this to be over, too, America finally said in German, repeating his response to the brown-haired woman and to the sobbing nation in his arms until Germany literally cried himself into exhausted sleep.

America let him stay there; he was literally sleeping with the enemy.

This war was goddamn stupid.

# # #

The next morning passed uneventfully. After another breakfast of C-rations, America insisted on buying some real food. Germany nodded and quietly lead them through Nierstein where they were able to obtain some bread and some powdered soup mix through the black market. If anybody thought anything strange about an American infantryman wandering around with a member of the Volkssturm (Germany still had the uniform jacket, but America had torn off the dangling identification armband with the swastika that morning), nobody said anything.

Personally, America didn't think what they managed to get was much better than C-rations, but at least it would be a slight change of pace. They sat outside in the sunshine on a bench and smoked a few more cigarettes before heading back to the house. With few supplies, it was a bad idea to waste energy.

When they went back, America went to sit on the bed, the only soft surface in the house. Germany stepped into the room after him and stood ramrod-straight beside the door, in perfect view.

America looked at him with what he hoped was an are-you-fucking-kidding-me expression. "Sit on the damn bed," he ordered. "You have got to be exhausted and I don't want to deal with it if you fall on your stupid Nazi face."

"As you wish," Germany said, and carefully sat on the edge of the bed.

Looking at him sitting there like that gave America a queer feeling in his stomach. It made no sense. After a while, Germany met his eyes, and raised an eyebrow, like he was waiting for something.

America didn't get it. Germany was not attractive. Particularly not now, in a despised uniform and having had the shit beat out of him and being far too thin.

But god, he suddenly wanted to rail him into the mattress.

"What?" he asked after a moment, in response to Germany's weirdly-expectant look.

Germany opened his mouth for a moment. "Either you have the world's most iron resistance… which would be odd for you… or you've never had a nation surrender directly to you before."

"…what?" America repeated again.

"I've expected you to rape me ever since I was naked in the forest," Germany said calmly, as if he were talking about the weather. The weather was actually quite lovely today, far nicer than this conversation was turning out to be.

"Why in the hell would I want to do that?" America managed after a moment, looking at Germany like he'd grown three Nazi heads.

"You don't?" Germany asked, a slight touch of amusement on his face. "It might not be as strong since you haven't officially won yet, but…"

"I've won the damn war, and both of us know it," America said with a drawl.

Germany nodded. "Yes, again, why I sought you out."

"I'm beginning to think that the whole fuckin' world thinks I'm some kind of pussy," America muttered. Though, again, in Germany's position America was likely top pick over taking it up the ass from England or, god forbid, the Soviet Union.

America actually shuddered a bit at the thought.

Germany's lip ticked up. "I assure you, nobody is ever going to think that again," he said, voice quiet.

"Damn right they won't," America replied, crossing his arms. "All right, so you want me to fuck you."

"It would be more correct to say, 'I want you to fuck me more than I want the other options to fuck me,'" Germany said, sounding a little dry.

"Well, that makes me totally hot for you too, baby. I don't have any lubricant."

"Lubricant?"

"Yes, you asshole; I saw you naked yesterday. I know you don't have a self-lubricating device," America said, rolling his eyes.

Germany simply looked at him. "You want to use lubricant?"

There was a beat, and America felt his expression shift. "Oh my… you are not serious. Every time you've had a war in Europe somebody sticks it up somebody else's ass without lubing them up first?"

"It's almost refreshing to speak with somebody so charmingly unaware of how Europe works," Germany said, the dryness back in his voice again. "And not all the time. But in situations like this one… and this is probably… definitely the most major example of this particular situation I've known of… that is generally what happens. I suppose you were too isolated after the Great War to notice. I did wonder why you didn't show up to the festivities."

"Jesus, no wonder you fucks all hate each other," America said, shaking his head. "Stupid Europeans like to pretend they're all civilized and shit while throwing violent rape parties. Christ. Look, I'm not sticking it up your ass without lubing you first. You'd get blood all over the goddamn place and I don't want all the noise you'd make to terrify the neighbors. Find something I can use to lube you that isn't fucking C-rations."

At the command, Germany rose from the bed. (The bastard was more obedient than America's own soldiers, for crying out loud.) The amused look on his face was back. "This is turning out to have been a better choice than originally anticipated," Germany commented, starting to dig around the room.

America's eyes riveted to Germany's too-thin ass as the other looked in drawers and tried to decode the strange feelings within him. Yes, he did want to have sex with Germany. He wanted Germany to submit in the basest way possible. He wanted Germany to literally feel his dominance from the inside out. He wanted Germany to remember this. He wanted Germany on his hands and knees, legs spread so America could see all of his most vulnerable parts; the twitching asshole, the backs of his sensitive balls.

However, there was another component there that European countries seemed to lack because apparently they were all barbaric sadists; he wanted Germany to like it. He wanted Germany to submit to his might and moan about how good it was, how good America could make it. He wanted Germany to want it again.

When he snapped out of his daze, he looked up to find Germany offering him a very small container of cold cream that must have been prewar. America opened the tin and there was a reasonable amount inside. Germany waited for orders.

"Out of the uniform and everything else but the shirt." The shirt was dirty, but it was better than staring at Germany's beaten body the entire time. As Germany complied, America shifted and leaned back onto the bed, removing his jacket to make things easier.

When Germany had disrobed according to orders, America pointed to his crotch. "Put your mouth to good use," he instructed. May as well start with the basics. "And so help me if there's any hint of teeth-"

"There won't be any teeth," Germany assured him quietly, sinking down onto his knees and carefully undoing America's trousers. "I am not an idiot."

"No, but you're a Nazi," America replied, getting a soft amused noise from Germany. Germany leaned forward and carefully enveloped America in hot warm bliss, one hand wrapping around the base of America's cock and carefully sucking.

America hissed quietly at the sudden pleasure that went zinging through his system - it seemed more intense than normal, even though Germany wasn't turning tricks with his mouth or anything. Prostitutes were more skilled (America enjoyed picking up the English ones just to piss England the fuck off), but this was-

Germany's tongue pressed up against the vein on the underside of America's cock and he gasped quietly as his cock quickly rose to attention. This was fantastic. Nazi Germany was sucking his fucking cock.

His hand moved and rested in Germany's hair, which seemed to cause Germany to shiver. Huh. Maybe Germany was more sensitive too.

This thought was knocked out of the park when Germany started to bob, slowly dragging his lips along the sensitive skin. Damn. Who'd have thought that all the times he called Germany a cocksucker he would literally be very good at the act?

Once he was good and hard, he carefully pushed Germany back; Germany looked up with plumped lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. America brushed fingers along his hard cock and handed Germany the cold cream.

"Masturbate," he ordered roughly. "I'm not sucking your cock."

"Didn't think you would," Germany said with a shrug, taking the tin of cold cream and swiping the tiniest amount from the tin with his finger (probably wishing to save most of it for his asshole), and reaching down to pick up his own flaccid cock. He moved his hand slowly back and forth his own length, his eyes fluttering closed as he started to work himself.

This, too, was erotic: demanding that Germany pleasure himself while America openly watched. Germany slowly started to harden in his own hand, and Germany quickened his motions, adding in an interesting wrist twist-flick that America was definitely going to have to try for himself; his thumb slid over his rapidly-darkening cockhead.

Soon enough Germany was panting quietly on his knees, and America watched with interest as white, milky precome started to try and gather on Germany's cockhead; Germany's thumb continually wiped it away like a windshield wiper did rain.

"Eat it," America found himself demanding, reaching down to stroke the skin of his own balls. "Your come."

Germany gritted his teeth as he stopped his hand motion. His cock started to leak openly, and Germany obediently wiped it up with his fingers and put it in his mouth over and over and over again.

Jesus Christ, this was much better than a common prostitute. And America didn't even have to pay for this one.

Germany had opened his eyes by now and was looking at America with an ice-blue gaze, his face flushed red as he continued to lick himself off his fingers.

"Get on the bed on your back," America decided after a moment. Germany nodded, and obeyed, climbing behind America on the bed and lying down.

Calmly, America turned around, hooked an arm under Germany's knees, and easily pushed his knees up and back until his legs were basically over his head and his ass was up in the air. Germany gasped, and then seemed to wince - he did have all of those injuries on his back.

"Hurt too much?" America asked.

Germany shook his head. Well, America supposed that was to be expected, considering he originally assumed he would be outright raped. This was undoubtedly less painful than that. It was a stretched out, vulnerable position, similar to a baby being lifted for diapering; one that most people probably wouldn't have been able to hold an adult in for very long, but most people weren't the United Fucking States.

America scooped up some of the cold cream and rubbed some of it into Germany's exposed cleft, fingers teasing the hole inside and making it twitch.

Germany gasped quietly at the touch of the cream, but did not make any move to get away. "Keep touching yourself," America ordered, and Germany's hand obediently reached forward to start working his cock again.

When he did, America slid a finger in up to the knuckle, and thrilled at Germany's soft moan as the other beat off. America watched him follow orders between Germany's legs, before he started moving his finger in time with Germany's thrusts.

Soon, almost improbably, Germany actually started to thrust back down on the single finger, his face flushed impossibly red, mouth parted to pant German curse words to the air. His eyes opened.

"America," he groaned desperately. "I am going to-"

"No you aren't," America replied, and slid in a second finger. As he thought, Germany winced at the sudden reintroduction to pain.

"No, I'm not," Germany agreed, and started working himself again since America had given no order to stop.

Ten minutes later, America was up to three fingers and Germany's cock was shamelessly weeping precome that America was making him catch and lick off his own fingers.

"How does it feel, Germany?" America asked, voice harsh with lust, his unattended cock positively throbbing at this point.

Germany's eyes were wet with arousal, but he apparently forced himself to focus over at America, looking up from between his spread, bent legs. "It feels good," he responded, clearly a bit dazed. "B-better than it's felt in a… ah… while."

This was hot.

"Hands and knees," America demanded, slowly lowering Germany from the held position. Germany caught a breath, and then rearranged himself as commanded, his knees planted deep within the mattress; his hands gripped the sheets as he dripped precome into them.

"I'm going to fuck you now," America told Germany's back, kneeling behind him and shifting his pants so that this would be easiest. He wasn't stripping.

"I know," Germany responded, voice gravelly and low with arousal. "Go ahead."

Not that America needed the permission, but he grabbed Germany's hips and carefully sank down into that tight, hot, wet, clenching passage.

"Masturbate," America ordered tightly, trying to keep from blowing his load too soon. Christ Lord, the Hun had a tight ass.

America could see Germany comply while panting tightly; Germany's erection must have flagged at least slightly at being entered. It didn't take long before America could feel him start to move rhythmically with his own stroking, and America finally felt like he had a handle on himself enough to start to move.

Their fucking was quiet; other than the slap of flesh on flesh and the slow slide of Germany's hand on himself, the only sound was breathing. Soon, he could feel Germany's body starting to tighten up, and his panting became slightly louder.

"Gonna come?" America asked, a slight laugh in his voice. "Gonna come while filled with American 'mongoloid' cock? Gonna spew that pure Germanic seed all over this bed?"

"Yes," Germany responded simply, his asshole twitching and insides simply burning America's cock. For all that he was clearly aroused, his voice was low and controlled and basically everything about how Germany normally was, only he was stuffed to the brim with America.

"Let go of yourself," America demanded, all the while picking up his own pace and starting to draw soft moans from Germany. Germany, of course, obeyed, and America replaced Germany's hand with his own, giving his (quite well-sized) cock a long, hard stroke.

That was all it took. Germany's body seized up and clamped down on America's cock; America very nearly almost came himself, but distracted himself by throwing a hand under Germany's cockhead to catch his load. America stayed inside him, still rock-hard and throbbing as he gently stroked Germany until the other was soft.

When he was, America, still inside, leaned forward and presented his hand, full of German seed, to Germany's lips.

Germany didn't need to be told. America could immediately feel Germany's tongue lapping up the semen, obediently eating his own mess.

Once America's hand was clean, he finally withdrew from Germany's body, still hard. "On your back," he ordered, and Germany obeyed.

"You know, if my soldiers were all as inclined to instantly follow my orders as you seem to be, I'd have kicked your ass sideways in '44," America remarked absently, gripping his own cock and leaning forward, planting his knees on either side of Germany's torso, just below his shoulders.

"You do seem to tolerate a lot of backtalk from your men," Germany replied calmly from below him as America started to pump himself.

"Tip your head back and open your mouth," America ordered. Germany did so.

It didn't take long for America to finish, what with a prone Germany beneath him with his head tipped back and mouth completely open to receive America's ridiculously large load of semen that exploded out of him in pulses more rapid than machine gun fire.

America had to brace his hand against the wall in order to avoid falling and crushing Germany. When he blearily opened his eyes again, Germany was still in the same position, only holding a mouthful of semen.

America shuddered with another hot pulse of arousal went through him as he looked down at the sight. "You can swallow," he said, and watched as Germany's throat worked, swallowing his release.

Once America had managed to sit on the bed, Germany cautiously sat up. When America didn't order him back down, he rested his hands behind him, leaning back, looking at America curiously.

"I assume that wasn't too painful," America said lightly, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping them up.

Germany tipped up his lip. "I have had far worse, I assure you."

America shook his head. "You do know that both England and the Soviet Union are going to figure out you're in my custody at some point. Just because I've apparently the only non-gory-rapist who's ever won a European war doesn't mean they're magically going to have a change of heart. And, frankly, I'm not sure on what grounds I'd have to deny them access to you."

That got another half-smile out of Germany. "I am quite sure that everybody will want to take their due," he said. "I am merely hoping for it to be more merciful than last time."

America's eyes settled absently on his uniform coat and lingered on the tear the brown-haired woman had sewn up. "History has vindicated Woodrow Wilson," he said absently. "I'd say I love being right, but this has all been an extraordinary price to pay for it."

Germany nodded. "I am hoping that his spirit is still alive and it gets the backing it needs this time."

(I want this to be over, the brown-haired woman had said. I don't care anymore. I want my children to live.)

America looked at his now-soon-to-be-ex-foe for a long moment. "Me too," he said. "These goddamn wars are stupid."

HISTORICAL NOTES:

So, there's a lot going on in this.

MARCH 1945: The first scene with the brown-haired woman is based off of a transcript of an American soldier named Jermy Wight. It can be read here. 2010/11/16/star-valley-resident-describes-wwii-from-the-front-lines-in-germany/ At this point in the war, the US, British-Canadian, and Soviet Union troops were basically crushing Nazi Germany like a vice. At the time of the Nero Decree, American troops were crossing the Rhine in order to head to Berlin; this where this story takes place. The story about the German woman with six kids serving America pancakes is based off of the same thing happening to Jermy Wight. (She didn't sew his jacket, though.) At this point in the war, German citizens knew the war was over, but Hitler wouldn't surrender.

THE CONQUERS: In the eyes of German citizens, the Americans were the friendliest. The British-Canadians tended to be much more harsh and the Soviet Union was literally raping and pillaging its way through the German countryside. Some female survivors of the Russian invasion report being raped up to 20 times a day. This brutal treatment was in retaliation for German soldiers doing the exact same thing to the Soviets when they were invading Russia (around 20 million Soviet citizens died at the hands of the Germans, most of them civilians. The Red Army was not playing around). German citizens were so afraid of the Soviets that many committed suicide, and it inspired one of the largest mass-migrations ever seen on the European continent as millions of Germans fled to surrender to the Americans. After Hitler's death, German generals stalled as much as possible to allow German troops to flee westward toward American troops and away from the Red Army.

THE NERO DECREE: On March 19th, 1945, Hitler issued what was formally called the Demolitions on Reich Territory Decree. Basically, this was an order to destroy all of Germany's infrastructure in order to prevent it from falling into Allied hands. This would have been a death knell for surviving Germans as they would literally be left with nothing. Fortunately, Albert Speer, who was Hitler's architect/Minister of Armaments and War Production talked Hitler into making Speer the exclusive power to implement the plan (Hitler agreed since he and Speer were friends). Speer deliberately disobeyed Hitler and did not put the Nero Decree into effect, knowing what it would do to postwar Germany.

THE NAZI WHO SAID SORRY: This is the aforementioned Albert Speer. He was arrested and put on trial at Nuremburg, and was the only one who admitted regretting everything he did. He ended up getting 20 years in Spandau Prison.

ROMMEL: Rommel was one of Germany's most brilliant and feared generals. (He ran the campaign in North Africa for most of the war and was extremely successful against the British for a very long time. They hated him.) He did indeed tell Hitler that the war was basically over once the Allies landed on Normandy and starting pouring in hundreds of thousands of soldiers as well as massive amounts of supplies. Hitler ignored him. Eventually, he was involved in what came to be known as the July 20th Plot, where a LOT of high-ranking Nazi officials tried to kill Hitler with a briefcase bomb. The plan failed and Hitler executed everybody involved. Rommel, due to his high status was given two options: 1) Be put on trial, given a painful execution, and have his family liquidated, or 2) Commit suicide. He chose option two.

MONGOLOID: When Germany declared war on the US on December 11, 1941, he called the US a bunch of 'mongoloids' due to the fact that the country was diverse and not racially pure like Germany.

BOMBING LONDON WAS AN ACCIDENT: This was also true. Originally, the bombing raids on England focused solely on RAF targets in order to cripple Britain's air force. One fateful day, a single Nazi plane got lost and bombed the center of London. Churchill was outraged at the attack on an entirely civilian target, and sent the RAF to bomb Berlin in response. In turn this outraged Hitler, who then ordered that British cities be bombed. This started what would come to be known as the Blitz. However, this was a very poor tactical move by Hitler; by shifting his attention to civilian targets, it gave the RAF time to regroup and perform spectacularly at the Battle of Britain.

THE VOLKSSTRUM: At the end of 1944, one of the biggest problems facing Nazi Germany was a total lack of manpower. They were still able to produce munitions reasonably, but there was nobody to drive the tanks or man the planes. The Volksstrum was basically a civilian militia comprised of men over the age of 60 and Hitler Youth. These corps were very poorly trained and had little or no military training and were often armed with WWI-era armament or older. As the war neared its closing, the Volksstrum started conscripting young girls, as well. Allied soldiers of all ranks were horrified when they realized they were shooting 12-year-olds.

TREATY OF VERSAILLES/WOODROW WILSON: The Treaty of Versailles ended WWI, and is essentially blamed with putting the wheels in motion for WWII. In Versailles, the Axis powers were forced to accept all responsibility for WWI (which was not true) and pay massive amounts of war reparations to the victors. This sowed great seeds of bitterness and put the Axis countries in dire-enough economic status to make people like Hitler and Mussolini look like good options to the desperate.

US President Woodrow Wilson opposed the Versailles approach and wanted to make peace terms on terms that wouldn't break the back of nations like Germany and Italy. However, he was hamstrung by his own Congress, who wanted so badly to be isolationist that it wouldn't even join the League of Nations (predecessor to the United Nations) that he had created. While Woodrow Wilson isn't the world's most well-known president in the US, he is extremely respected in Europe and most believe that if he had been listened to, WWII could have been avoided.

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