'It is not until you become a mother that your judgement slowly turns to compassion and understanding.'

Despite what many may think, England did not hate his brothers. In fact, he did not truly hate anyone. There were little moments when he lost his self control - moments where the resentment and anger of his older citizens, the so-called righteous anger of his younger citizens take hold of him, make him lash out at everyone. But those moments are few, fewer still since the new century - he supposes it's the casual openness and acceptance of his youngest citizens of whatever - or rather, whoever came their way.

The younger nations have less control over their impulses. He sees this when Russia and America sneer and snarl at each other, facing off like two lions imposing on one another's territory. The rest of the world is undeniably nervous of the two superpowers facing each other - knowing that annihilation is at the press of a button - but England remains calm, lifting his teacup to his lips as he watches the two carefully. He sees what they don't see: the rigid set of America's shoulders, the slight tightening around the eyes, the dark smudges under Russia's eyes, the upset whirling behind the anger.

"Hey, Britain, do something!" exclaims someone, and England has to roll his eyes. Why does it fall to him to break them up? As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he's practically insignificant. For a moment, he feels contemptuous, not moving, wanting someone else to sort it out. But then it turns to a world weariness, one that is present in his actions as he calmly puts his tea down, lifts himself out of the chair with the air of a mother going to stop another petty fight between children. Not that he knows that of course, and scowls at the snigger France lets out, shaking slightly behind his newspaper, missing the significant look the other nations pass between them.

"America, step away from Russia," England says patiently. America does not listen, still in Russia's face, hissing things that he can't quite hear. England steps forwards, places a hand on his back, applying a light pressure just like he used to when the child was small, and required comfort in the middle of the night. England immediately dismisses that thought even as America unconsciously relaxes his shoulders for the first time today. He is not a child, he tells himself. Not your child. Not anymore. You're his ally. You have a duty to do this.

America steps back, England's hand warm and light on his back. "You stay in your little hell-circle," he sneers. He feels a pang as England's hand drops from his back, and he steps away again.

"Why you pompous little - " Russia steps forwards, hand going beneath his coat, a flash of metal pipe making America wrap his fingers around his gun -

"Russia!" England says a little more harshly. He ignores the intake of breath from the other nations watching. He's never spoken to Russia in their little fights, always placated America while Russia sat on the other side of the room and shot them dark looks. Although, thinking back on it, there may have been a little jealousy in those looks, and England berates himself for not seeing it earlier.

Russia pauses too, looking startled. It makes him look so young that England feels a jolt even as he crosses to Russia's side, not touching him in the presence of so many outside eyes, but softening his gaze a little. His eyes stray pointedly to the smudges under Russia's eyes, to the scrumple of the suit below his coat, to the weary slump in his otherwise rigid carriage. Although his face does not change expression, in his eyes the anger and upset melts away into an infant apology, inclining his head a little.

The rest of the world watches in whispers, and he can feel America's confused, angry stare on his back. He turns his head a little more - away from the watchers and towards Russia - softening his gaze completely, raising a motherly eyebrow at him, one that promises, I'll get to you later. Russia acquiesces without comment, going back to his seat, expression unreadable. England lets the mask slip back into face before turning to face America and the world.

"I believe there is a meeting to be held?" he says coldly, eyes boring into Germany, who jumps into his role. He strides back to America, taking him by the arm like a small child, and guides him to his seat. He gives the nation a cold stare, daring him to interrupt the meeting again and takes his place beside France, who rustles his newspaper enough for them to exchange a look unnoticed by the world as the meeting begins again, one that says, we'll get to him later.