A/N I'm soooo soooorryyyyyy! I've been insanely busy ||(_ _)|| This chapter has actually been typed up for months except for the last few paragraphs, because I didn't know how to end it ^^" But here it is at last! For ye who asked, there isn't an official pairing for this fanfic, but it can be interpreted as USUK (or UKUS) if you are so inclined. But, that said, my blatantly pairingy sequel is now up, entitled "Forever," so if you ship these two and enjoyed WTTW I encourage you to check it out.

The last chapter, in case you couldn't tell, represented the burning of Washington in the War of 1812.

I wrote this chapter in American English, and it was difficult. Appreciate it. :|

Anyhoo, thanks so much for those of you who followed/faved/reviewed! It means a lot to me. Please enjoy!

Chapter 5
Today

I sit up in bed with a start, sweat pouring off my body and soaking into the sheets that are hopelessly tangled about my legs. My lungs heave, desperate for air, and inhale a generous helping of spit, which I try to hack up for like half an hour before flopping back onto my pillows, which are just as sweaty and gross as the rest of the bedclothes. I run my hand through my hair and it audibly peels away from my soaked forehead. Nasty.

Why the hell had that particular memory decided to surface? I'd just about convinced myself that I kicked England's ass into next Thursday in that war, and then my stupid brain had to go and unravel all my careful propaganda.

Wait… that was in 1814. This year's 1914. It's been exactly a hundred years.

Happy anniversary of getting your capital burnt down. Now get out of bed before you drown in your own sweat. With a few wild kicks I manage to free myself from the damp mess of blankets and sheets and expose my body to some fresh air, flailing one arm to try to locate my nightstand.

Ah, there it is.

Chink.

...and there goes Texas.

Damn it, today's just not my day. I groan and let my arm fall along the side of the bed, feeling along the floor with my fingers for my glasses while squinting at my alarm clock and trying to make sense of the blurry symbols obscured by darkness. I should make one that has numbers that, like, light up... yeah... and it would just say the time instead of messing with all those stick things and stuff. I get up at like the crack of dawn, and it's just way too early to try to decode those stupid sticks.

I finally recover my glasses and turn on the light. It's 10:42. Like I said, folks, crack of dawn.

I roll out of bed and somehow drag myself across the hall to take a shower. Thinking a little more clearly and smelling like hero, I emerge a few minutes later and mosey on downstairs in my boxers to rustle up some grub.

England is in my kitchen.

Can you say awkward?

I actually don't really mind being caught in my boxers. Don't care at all. The awkward thing is that I haven't really spoken to England in like a century and even that was just before he freaking shot me in the heart, not to mention that he's just kind of in my kitchen. Like, making tea with my kettle and everything.

"Dude, you want something?" I ask, with a little more hostility in my voice than I originally intended. He turns to look at me, and immediately I can see that he's changed somehow. It's kind of hard to describe. For one thing, he's wearing this sort of dull green uniform that somehow manages to be made entirely of straight lines even though people obviously aren't rectangular. It's such a frugal, no-nonsense outfit, which looks really weird on England. The last I checked, he was still decked out in fancy expensive stuff with gold braid and epic buttons and all this shiny crap, yet here he is with a piece of clothing that's just... clothing. It's not England surrounded by the splendor of the British Empire. It's just England in clothes. Period.

Secondly, he's not making any kind of Eww, America expression like he has been for the past century or so. There no disappointment or resentment or sorrow or anger. It's more like an Oh expression—y'know, the kind of expression you'd make if someone just walked into the room, which I just did, so that's probably why he's making it. Then his gaze travels a little lower and he blushes and turns back to his tea, with that little eyebrow twitch and a faint clearing of the throat that together mean I'm just going to pretend I didn't see that in Victorianese.

"Actually, yes, I do," he says, stirring his tea as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "I have a… favor to ask of you." His words are clipped and his voice chilly, I assume because he hates having to ask me for anything.

"Yeah?" I yawn and lean on a counter, tipping my head sideways to let a trickle of shower water run out of my ear.

"It's about Germany."

I arch an eyebrow and wait for him to explain. He's still staring intently down into his tea like it's a crystal ball and he can see the secrets of the universe in his own murky reflection. Or something.

"And… Austria. And Hungary. And Belgium. And Russia. And Fr—"

"Europe," I finish for him, and he nods slightly, although the corners of his mouth turn down a little more in annoyance at having been interrupted.

"I don't even understand the situation entirely," he continues, tapping his teaspoon delicately on the rim of his cup before slipping the silverware into the sink with a clank. "But, well, to get straight to the point, we're all at war now. France, Russia, Belgium, my empire, and our allies against Germany, Austria, Hungary and the Ottoman Empire."

"Fun. That all?"

He glances up at me incredulously. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yeah. You know I don't care what you guys do over there. It's none of my business."

He sighs and turns to face me, those oh-so-familiar eyes narrowed in annoyance and glaring at me poisonously. "This war is unlike any other. This war is not a formality— a set of rules we follow to systematically kill each other until we again put on the façade of civility and compose a treaty. This war is a fight to the death, and I do not simply refer to a vague 'many' people, I refer to every last man."

"War is war," I say, unnerved but unyielding. "It's still none of my business."

"You don't understand." England sighs again, not meeting my eyes, and when he next speaks his voice is strangely soft and deep, and so dreamily impassive that it makes me shiver for no apparent reason. "A nation will die in this war."

That gets my attention. I stare at him wide-eyed, my voice a hoarse whisper as I choke out, "Who?"

"I don't know." He's still speaking with that quiet, emotionless tone and it's starting to freak me out a little. He leaves his tea and starts slowly pacing the perimeter of my kitchen, trailing his fingers over the countertops. "France is a likely candidate, as is Italy; they're both weaklings. Austria and Hungary may go down together. Perhaps Germany himself, or Prussia." At this point he stops, slides a knife out of the knife block on the counter and gently touches his finger to its tip. I open my mouth to warn him that it's sharper than he thinks, but before I can form the words he applies the slightest amount of pressure and drives the point of the knife into his skin. "Maybe even me," he concludes in little more than a whisper, thoughtfully watching a crimson droplet swell out of the shallow wound and roll down his finger.

Had he been speaking normally I would shoot off a snide remark about how the world would be better off without him, but his tone is so detached, so resigned, that my blood runs cold and for once I find myself speechless. What he said could be true: with the recent flood of military technology, all the nations are itching to try out their new toys; and a massive war would provide the perfect playground for them to happily blow each other to pieces.

What if England were to be caught in the crossfire?

I try to push back my hatred for him and think of a world without him. To my surprise, there isn't all that much hatred to push back. He certainly hasn't been affectionate to me since the Revolution, but really, what am I expecting? Isn't that what I wanted?

…Isn't it?

"Okay," I say. "Fine. I'll talk to my boss about sending you supplies or something. But I'm not going to get too involved unless I really need to."

"Splendid." He smiles the kind of self-satisfied smirk that became so familiar to me during the early years of the British Empire, and I want to kick myself. As if he could've changed all that much.

I shoot him my best death glare. "You're still using me. After all those wars and all that conflict you're still treating me like an underling."

England laughs, and for the first time since the seventeenth century he sounds genuinely amused instead of mocking. "Not at all," he says with a shrug, tossing the knife into the sink and retrieving his tea. "I asked for your help this time, did I not?"

"No," I say flatly. "You didn't." But he has a point even so. Before, he would've simply taken what he needed regardless of my feelings on the matter. At least now he deems me worthy of manipulation.

"In fact, I'm helping you by allowing you to help me. It's about time you got involved in global politics. You can't expect anyone to take you seriously when you don't even act like a proper nation."

"Dude—" I begin, cutting in as he takes a sip of tea; but he holds up one finger to indicate that he's not finished.

"You still don't think I'm taking you seriously?" he asks, quirking half a dozen eyebrows or so, and I nod vehemently. "Very well then, I'll ask you properly. Will you, the United States of America, consent to assist Us, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in defeating Our enemies in the forthcoming Great War?"

Let me tell you, boys and girls, shit gets real when England breaks out the royal we.

"Uh…" I falter, not wanting to say no and disrupt our pleasantly apathetic relationship, but simultaneously not wanting to give in and have much of Europe against me.

Then I realize that he'd called me the United States of America.

Jawdrop.

"Good. I knew you'd comply, old boy." He leaves his empty teacup on the counter and pats me amiably on the shoulder on his way to the front door. My mind only registers it vaguely, as if it were happening to someone else while I watch. He called me the USA. He acknowledged that I'm a country. My own country.

England's almost out the door by the time I gather my wits and trip over myself to show him out. His hand pauses on the doorknob and he turns around to face me, finds himself staring at my chest, and redirects his eyes upwards to focus on my face with an expression that I would call affectionate pride if I didn't know him better.

"You've matured admirably, if a little unintelligently," he says, and sweet Jesus is that warmth in his voice? "I'll raise you to be a noble country yet." He nods approvingly and opens the door, then hesitates and turns his head towards me again. "America?"

"Yeah?"

He smiles the way he used to, the way I know no one else has ever seen him smile. "Welcome to the world."

With that he walks away towards his future. Our future.