Hey folks. I realize this story might be a little ridiculous (and a little strange; I've never really written pure UsUk before), but I hope it puts a smile on your face nevertheless.

Please read, review, and enjoy!

~*oOo*~

"America, you slow, brainless, conniving jackass, I am going to throttle you!"

The day hadn't gone so well for England.

It was bad enough that he'd had to fly into the wretched city of Boston—that place was full of memories he'd much rather forget—but his plane had been delayed for over three hours. Weren't countries supposed to receive better treatment than this? Hell, the Queen had her own bloody airplane while the personification of her country had been forced to wait in a long line full of irritated passengers. Somewhere a baby bawled its little lungs out, and eventually England's head began to throb with a painful migraine.

He'd searched in his pocket for an aspirin, anything, but he'd only found an empty bottle. Christ, he'd forgotten he'd used those last three after a particularly exhausting conversation with America over the phone a day or so ago.

Sweaty, sick, and agitated, he'd sat down, only to realize that he was starving. But the terminals at the airport selling overpriced and greasy food (Lord knew his cuisine was much better) were packed full of noisy people, and England's head was still stinging. He tried to get a packet of crisps from the vending machine, but the stupid thing had gotten caught in the wire, and no amount of banging on the glass was going to shake it free.

England had had to make a sleuth of phone calls to some very annoyed people who seemed to assume that the delay was somehow his fault. His prime minster sternly reminded him of the piles of paperwork waiting for him back home, and the queen told him he was in for a good talking-to. The coordinators of the World Conference reluctantly told him that they could postpone for a few hours, but the other nations were very likely going to be furious about the whole thing, considering how difficult traveling was. Everyone came from a different time zone, so scheduling out the meetings was very often something of a headache.

They thought THEY had a headache….

By the time England boarded his flight (sandwiched between two sweaty, uncouth rednecks who kept hurling loud insults at each other), his head hurt so badly he was seeing stars. Then, when he'd arrived in a rainy Boston, a few tourists had recognized him and elected to give him the finger as he tried to wave down a taxicab, only to get sloshed with dirty water after a bus roared past.

Needless to say, England was in a dark mood by the time he finally reached the hotel where they were holding the conference. He wished the bowing footman had said something nasty to him so that he would have an excuse to vent his anger, snapped at the receptionist who didn't know which ballroom was reserved for the meeting and had to check the listing. By the time England had finally trudged into the room and sank into his chair, he had been convinced that things couldn't possibly be worse.

And then IT had happened. Supper time had come at last, and America initiated what would forever be known in the record books as the Boston Cream Pie Massacre. By the time a white flag was raised by both sides, the once finely-polished room was carpeted in crust, splattered with whipped cream and custard, and more than a few molars dislodged by countries who had admittedly gotten a little too enthusiastic about the entire thing.

The custodial workers of the Riverview Hotel certainly had their work cut out for them today; cleaning costs were probably going to rise above one thousand dollars. America had assured the bedraggled nations stumbling out of the conference room that he would cover the damage charges, as well as the many cleaner costs, but Arthur had remained behind with his former colony, face set with fury.

America was smiling nervously at him, trying to defuse the situation with his normal charm, but it appeared even the halfwit knew that wasn't going to buy him out of this mess. England glowered at him, his face splattered with sweet, chest huffing and puffing rapidly after his angry shout.

"I just wanted to defuse some tension between Israel and Palestine," protested Alfred, swallowing as England narrowed his sharp green eyes dangerously. "All that talk of warfare and doomsday was really getting everyone down and mad. It's not like we get anything DONE at these things anyway, so I decided to call in catering and cheer them up by treating them to a hometown favorite."

"By beaning a pie directly at Israel's face?"

"Hey, he knows I support him!" Alfred exclaimed. "I was just trying to hand it to him was all. His face got in the way."

Aghast, England simply stared at him, too struck dumb with disgust to say anything for a moment. But his hot temper began to boil underneath his skin, whistling in his mind like a bubbling teapot. He stuttered inarticulately for a moment before his mouth and his mind finally reconnected.

"His face got in the way? By George, you didn't even hit the poor bloke! You hit BLOODY CUBA!"

America held his hands up in surrender.

"Didn't mean to!" America pleaded. "Besides, it wasn't like he didn't retaliate immediately with unnecessary aggression. He grabbed a pie and socked Canada upside the head with it. Considering the fact that sucker was meant for ME, I oughta consider that an act of war."

"Enough!" England insisted, his voice growing louder and angrier by the second. "I have HAD it with you, you little brat! What is it about you and ruining everything you touch, every chance you have to redeem yourself?"

Alfred just stared at him blankly, reluctantly crossing the room as his hand timidly wandered to his former colonizer's arm. His voice was much hoarser than normal when he shakily responded, "Iggy, just…just calm down, I'm really sorry—"

"You're SUCH a child!" exclaimed England in disgust, throwing off Alfred's arm as if it were a dead rodent. "And stop calling me that, you idiot, I never once gave you permission to call me that! So knock it off!"

He strode for the door, turning around only once, his caterpillar brows furrowed. Alfred stared at him like a lost child in the piles of whipped cream that still lay around the

"Why don't you do us all a favor and grow up for once in your rotten life, or perhaps you should just consider throwing yourself off a building now and be done with it. I assure, none of us would be very sorry. I least of all."

America's mouth dropped and his eyes seemed overbright.

And with that, England stormed out, leaving America alone in the room. The country did not pursue him.

That night, after England had a hot shower and meal, he hired a limo to drive him to the airport—he couldn't possibly stay too soon—and he looked out the window at the lit streetlamps, which glowed in the darkness like little matchsticks.

He remembered when they had been lanterns, few and far between, and England had had to assure his scared little protégé that yes, he knew the road well enough even in the darkness, and that ghosts wouldn't come out at them. Even then he had known that America's intense fear of ghosts was his fault; he had told the child countless frightening bedtime stories. Blast it all, he hadn't known how to raise a child! No one had taught him how!

England wearily pressed his head against the leather seats and closed his eyes. The pain from his temples had by now moved down into his stomach.

Good God, what an absolutely ridiculous day. 'Throw yourself off a building….' He shook his head like a dog trying to rid itself of water. That really had been rather harsh, even for England. His hand wandered over to his pocket, hovering over his phone, but the man withdrew it, wearily groaning. He hated the fact that he'd probably made the young country very upset, but he hated the idea of having to apologize to him more.

Guilt rose into his throat in the form of a lump, but England turned his gaze to the airport outside, which had just started to appear on the horizon, a beacon of hope.

Knowing America, he'd probably already forgotten about the entire thing. The boy had the attention span of a goldfish and was probably running around some arcade with his foul-mouthed little alien friend. England rolled his eyes. There was no need for him to say anything or provoke another argument.

The ex-empire would simply have to leave it be for awhile and everything would be well again, as if the whole spectacle had never happened.

He grudgingly had to admit that it HAD been funny in its own way, though it had been a shameful waste of custard.

~*oOo*~

Unfortunately, America was hosting the next conference as well. At least it was in New York this time, rather than in that hateful little city.

England nervously straightened his tie before heading onto the escalator, glancing out at the window where the Twin Towers had once stood. It had been weeks now since he and America had spoken, one of the longest spans they'd ever gone without talking. He'd waited for America to harangue him with annoying emails and phone messages begging England to show up in costume to some movie premiere, but no such message ever came.

For a few days, it had been rather peaceful. Then, it had just gotten…annoying, somehow. Arthur found himself glancing at the phone every now and again in his study, periodically checking his answering machine on his breaks. When he'd had a dream that America was calling him, he'd scrambled out of bed for the telephone, only to discover it was just a telemarketer. England sighed loudly as he walked off the escalator, looking for the signs to direct him to room 326, the conference room.

He'd hemmed and hawed for some weeks, dialed America's number halfway and then hung up. So maybe America was busy. It certainly didn't meant that he was upset with him. Gracious, America was too lazy to hold a grudge.

England felt a little better as he approached the door. Hopefully, the young nation wasn't serving soup, else he'd need a raincoat.

He smirked, entered—and walked right into a complete stranger. England hastily stepped back and tried to stammer out an apology, but his mind abruptly went blank and his eyes went on screen saver mode.

"Hello, England."

The elder country stared in incomprehension, reality slowly dawning on him. Good Lord, it's him, it's actually him—"A-America," he stammered, feeling his face burn from the inside out. "You….look….nice."

America really did look nice. He'd removed his brown leather bombing jacket in favor of a formal black suit coat, which looked very much like one of the many England had thrust on his colony in their early days. Cuff links shone at his wrists, and he wore a dark red tie, not at all like one of the cartoony ones America so often wore on the rare occasion he could be persuaded to wear a "noose," as he so eloquently called them. Even that ever-stubborn Nantucket had been neatly tucked into the crown of yellow hair, indistinguishable from the rest.

England's eyes couldn't help but wander down, down, down to Alfred's shoes, where his normal sneakers had been replaced by a pair of shining loafers. He swallowed heavily and returned a shaky smile to America, who was watching him carefully. "It's…it's quite a change. I must say I like it." Why the rotten devil was it becoming so difficult to speak? "Well done, you."

His former colony just considered him, a small, composed smile on his face. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

England opened his mouth, closed it, and just nodded, flushing painfully. America waited for a response, nodded politely when he saw that none was forthwith coming, and turned to greet Canada by his first name, an act which so moved the syrup-loving nation that he burst into tears.

The Brit tried to stammer out something else, but America had moved to the door to greet Mexico, who didn't look at all like she recognized him. England slowly settled into his seat—how, he'd never know, his legs were numb—and gawked at America.

He took the time to greet every nation who walked into the room with a handshake, even Cuba, who tried to strangle him, Russia, who looked very startled but accepted it gracefully, and Belarus, who tried to cut him. Most nations were astonished by this new, clean-shaven and crisply attired America. Others loved it.

"America, you look wonderful!" exclaimed France, ignoring America's outstretched hand and kissing him on both cheeks. England felt his own face burn and his fists clenched underneath the table, nails digging into his palms. France stepped back, eyeing America's fine attire appreciatively. "Well, it appears someone is finally taking fashion a bit more seriously…."

"Ralph Lauren," said America happily, adjusting his country's flag pin on his lapel. France beamed at him.

"Ah, but it is the responsibility of good-nations such as yourself (not quite so lovely as I am, but that's to be expected) to keep yourself in gorgeous attire! Still," he purred, his light blue eyes glittering with mischief, "I can't help but wonder how sculpted that body must be without such things…."

America didn't squeak or squawk or bury a blushing face in his hands, much to England's surprise.

"Yes well, when I get a body like yours and lose the whole 'common decency' thing, you'll be the first to know," he said casually, shaking France's hand and heading to the podium. England watched as America carefully surveyed the room like a hawk, checking for any empty spaces. When he saw none, he smiled and cleared his throat, tapping the microphone rather than yelling into it, as wasn't his usual wont. The sound caught the attention of the murmuring nations, and they looked at the young man in surprise.

"I think it's about time we begin," America spoke, "And seeing as everyone's here and assembled, I would like to start matters off by welcoming you all to my home again and to the 89th World Conference." His voice was cool but welcoming, slow but to the point. "As you can see in front of you, there is a pamphlet of current issues that we'll be discussing. After doing a survey of previous meetings, I've arranged issues according to their relevance." England started as he realized that there was a neatly stapled paper book in front of him. He tentatively touched it with a fingernail, as if he were afraid it would explode. "All in favor of beginning this meeting?"

The countries just looked at each other, bemused, Arthur most of all, though his gaze was locked only on America. Hesitantly, a few hands rose into the hair, and dozens followed. America surveyed them all carefully, looking unusually smart and dapper behind his spectacles.

"All opposed?" he asked. No hands raised. America nodded approvingly.

"Good…good…now, number one, addressing the issue of pollutants…."

China immediately stood up, and England inwardly groaned. Oh, Lord, here we go.

"Before anyone starts and it isn't like YOUR cities are anything to speak of—"

"No one's attacking you, China," said Alfred warily, as if he'd been expecting this. "Please sit down."

But the dark-haired nation rounded on him. "It is always ME you draw out first in stupid meetings, though you owe me billions of dollars, which is becomingly increasingly unacceptable—"

"It is," said America gently. "Which is why you and I need to discuss the reparation payments after the meeting. It won't all come at once of course, but my government has agreed to dip into the treasury so that we can start sending you larger increments back each year. With interest, as we promised."

The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. China stared at America as if he'd seen a ghost.

"What?" he stammered, trying to regain his composure. "Well….well, yes. It's about time, aru!"

"This meeting isn't about playing the blame game, China. Please sit down and turn to page 8 so that we can go back to discussing Article One." England's eyes just about popped out of his head when China did just that.

Boloucks, this can't be happening! The fairies have abducted Alfred!

"As for your environmental standards, I think it's a good idea if we can all come up with some sort of universal ecological guidelines for the usage of fossil fuels and the disposal of hazardous waste products," said America quietly and England paled. "I realize it's going to be difficult, and considering my country uses a fourth of the world's resources, I think it's pretty safe to say we're in one hell of a mess here, folks. But we're levying more money to the research of finding alternative fuels so that we can gradually wean ourselves off pollutants that are steadily decreasing AND have a death grip on the economy."

He took a sip of water—no ridiculously large Slurpee or sugary coffee covered in whipped cream?—and began again.

"Germany, your country in a recent study was marked one of the cleanest industrial sites in the world," he remarked, and dozens of eyes drifted over to Ludwig, who by now had gone very red in his seat. England pinched himself. America's asking for someone else's opinion? "Ecologically speaking, that's outstanding. Do you have the report we discussed earlier on how you manage that?"

"J-ja." He uncertainly stood up, and America respectfully headed to his own seat as Germany took the podium, gesturing to a few charts that he and America had prepared. England swallowed, his mouth as dry as sandpaper. Collaboration. Cooperation. Paper clips on paper rather than being flung at you via slingshot.

England took a sip of water to steady his nerves, glancing at America watching Ludwig's presentation, his eyes filled with interest and concentration instead of looking to a game counsel hidden under the table.

The ex-empire blushed, coughed, and sputtered, and Scotland had to smack him on the back so that he didn't choke.

~*oOo*~

The meeting was, for the first time in what felt like years, quite productive. While the usual arguments broke out between the usual countries, America soothed them to the best of his ability and steadily guided them back to the manner at hand. When it was over, a surprising number of countries came forward to speak with America, many offering him congratulations and more wanting to discuss projects he had proposed during the meeting. England skulked in the background, not used to being in a crowd of people wanting to chat with the United States and admittedly not liking it much.

When at last South Africa left and the two were alone in the room, England hesitantly stepped forward as America began to pack his briefcase. Now England was to uncertain where to look and he felt a queer trembling in the pit of his stomach.

He was nervous.

"Uh, America," he began, smiling awkwardly when America's gaze fell on him again. His hand wandered over to his cravat, loosening it ever so slightly. It was getting uncomfortably warm in here. "About…about uh, last meeting…" If…whatever it was….warmed him throughout the meeting, now he was just hot with shame. "Well, you certainly proved me wrong. I'm….I'm sorry."

America said nothing for a moment. Then, he went back to sliding in files.

"It was a long time in coming," said America shortly as finished sorting his papers, neatly clicking the briefcase shut. "My boss gave me a good talking to after the last World Conference; he agreed with what you had to say and more." His tone was mild, but England's heart still ached. "Just a good wake-up call. It's the 21st century, for god's sake. I can't afford to screw things up any more than I already have."

England grinned sheepishly, feeling heat start to bloom in his face again. "Yes, well….would you care to…to get some lunch?" An afternoon alone with America would be comforting; after awhile America would loosen up and tease him mercilessly. The idea was sobering, but at least it would assure him that all was as it always was.

America smiled but shook his head no. "No thanks. I had some coffee and a Danish for brunch, so I should be fine for awhile." America abstaining from food? AND eating brunch instead of breakfast and lunch? As well as knowing what brunch actually was? It was only after a good ten seconds had passed that England realized that his jaw had dropped again. He closed it, flushing furiously. "O-oh." Curse his infernal stammering! "Well…maybe tonight you'd like to take a walk or something? Before I head back to England?"

"I can't," said America apologetically, reaching for a stack of papers and rifling through them before tucking the parcel under his arm. "I've got another conference with my states concerning something I've been planning for awhile now. Well, it was nice seeing you again," he said politely, tipping his head ever so slightly before he headed for the door, leaving a stunned England in the glossy conference room, alone.

~*oOo*~

A week or so later, while England was sitting at home enjoying a cup of Earl Gray and a partially burnt muffin, he browsed through the morning paper, not really taking much of anything in. His glazed green eyes wandered up and down the print, and he was just about to fold the paper up and throw it away when a particular headline caught his eye:

Russian-American Ties Taking An Upswing, Page 6

England's brow furrowed, and he frowned, puzzled. He turned the pages until he came to a picture of America's boss, who was shaking hands with Russia's. But what truly captured his attention was how the presidents' respective countries were standing behind the two, mimicking their leaders, hands intertwined. America was grinning with no hint of outrage or suspicion in his eyes, and Russia was smiling absently, not murderously. England's eyes darted to their hands, which didn't seem involved in their usual dance of trying to break the other's fingers.

The hell is this?

He hurriedly read the article, his uncertain expression sinking deeper and deeper into a troubled scowl.

'The United States has extended an international hand of friendship to its longtime rival and fellow superpower, the Federation of Russia. President _ and President _ met early yesterday morning to discuss a series of agreements concerning Georgia and the missile crisis in Europe…..'

He scanned on, not really caring. '….are looking increasingly optimistic, especially after the Americans were invited to march in Russia's Victory Day Parade two years prior, the first time the United States was ever allowed to walk alongside its allies in celebration of the end of the second great war. Alfred F. Jones, the personification of the United States, was reported to have pushed the treaties as matters of grave importance to President _, and requested to have a personal meeting with Ivan Braginski, which Secretary of Defense _ claims went rather well.

"Shoot, he didn't threaten nuclear annihilation ONCE to Braginski,' a stunned _ murmurs in amazement. "Not ONCE did they talk about dismemberment or castration or doomsday. Actually pretty amazing, if you ask me. They seem to be quite friendly now."'

England lowered the article, mind shot with disbelief.

They can't be bloody serious. This is some April Fool's Day trick, to be sure. They'll run a recant tomorrow and explain the whole thing is a joke.

But without really thinking about it, his hand flew into his pocket and yanked out his cell phone. He immediately speed-dialed the country, tapping his foot angrily on the kitchen floor when it rang again and again and again. "Come on," he growled. "Pick up."

"Hello?" he heard America ask, none of his normal "Hey, it's me, America, international superstar and savior of hot babes!" nonsense. "Alfred F. Jones speaking."

Color rushed to England's face again, and his fingertips trembled around his cell, as electricity was flowing from the device to his hand.

"Uh, hello," England coughed. This felt very peculiar, as if he were talking to a stranger. "It's me, you twat."

America didn't retaliate with an insult of his own, or even whine. "Might I ask what is the nature of your call, sir?" he asked calmly.

England's green eyes just about popped out of his head. Good God, that was poised and polite, but it was also so….distant, formal. Almost cold. He supposed that it was a definite improvement over America's normal conceited carelessness, but it felt incredibly…awkward.

While England wracked his brains and tried to stammer out a response, America reminded him curtly, "I'm on the clock, England." The older nation immediately scowled. How dare the brat treat him like some gawping moron! He flailed for a second before quickly recovering.

"I heard you and Russia are working on…on improving foreign relations. That's…that's very good," he finished lamely. He wishes he could see America's expression.

A pause. "Defusing a schism like the Cold War is going to take a long time," said America mildly, and England very nearly melted upon hearing his former colony using such big words, as America would so elegantly put it prior to his great change. Defusing! Schism! "Though it's officially died down, we still have our hackles raised behind the scenes….I don't know if we'll ever exactly see eye to eye, considering Russia and I are the antithesis of each other…." Oh God, Oh God, Antithesis. He wished America were there so that he could croon words like that all day long. He was going to get the boy a Webster's Dictionary for Christmas. "But we've both agreed to do our best. My boss wants Russia and I to get together for a few more press events so that the public can see we're trying to get along now. Thankfully Ivan's boss seems to think it's a good idea too, so I'm pretty sure we're penciled in next week to play tennis together."

England felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"You're calling him Ivan now?" asked the ex-empire, wincing at how utterly puny his voice sounded. After inwardly smacking himself, he gruffly cleared his throat and assumed an indifferent air. "That's a…a rather big step."

If England didn't know better, he'd say he could almost hear Alfred shrug. "He's not so bad, once you get to talk with him. It was actually kind of nice; we have a lot more in common than I ever thought we would. He invited me to attend the ballet with him in December—I'm looking forward to it."

"I see." The room was becoming almost unbearablywarm, though the strange, pleasantly painful vibrations he had been feeling throughout his body increased. But not in a good fashion. The fire inside of him towered, licked at his insides, scalding him with a blistering sense of….

Jealousy? England blinked, slightly lost.

Why the hell should he have to feel jealous about anything? He only saw the oaf every couple of weeks. Well, not so often now, but that certainly wasn't abnormal! England coughed.

"I…I was wondering, A-Alfred," He was a man, a very well-polished, learned country at that! "If perhaps you happened to have…to have a free day, we could maybe…play croquet…or one of those video games you like so much."

Silence. Even with the absence of a dial tone, England was almost positive America had hung up. Then, the younger nation said gently, "That's nice of you to offer, but it's tax season and I have a lot of work to do right now." America's voice was soft and collected, and didn't betray a hint of regret.

"I don't have time to play games, England. And I'm sure neither do you."

"Apparently you have time to play games with Russia," England growled, gripping the phone so tightly he could hear the plastic cracking underneath his hand.

"That's improving international relations," the young nation said indifferently. "Maybe some other time…thank you for directing your call to the United States, we hope you have a very pleasant day."

"Wai—" But before England could continue, Americahad hung up, and now England was listening to a dial tone, his cornflakes overturned his lap, milk dripping onto the floor. He didn't notice.

England decided to work from home that day, but his mind was a sieve. America couldn't make time for him? But he'd always, always made time for England, for Arthur, regardless how bad a state of he himself was in. When Princess Diana had died, America had run out of a meeting with his irate boss and immediately hopped a plane to England's home. When the Twin Towers had crumbled, America had been the one doing the comforting—to England, though he was the one with two bloody gashes on his neck. Hell, he'd even attended the Queen's diamond jubilee in a gesture of goodwill, though Elizabeth certainly wasn't happy about the confetti cannon.

England bit the inside of his mouth as he flipped through old documents, impatiently signing a good number of petitions without considering them closely. His normally neat penmanship was shaky today; his hand kept shaking as the nation continued to fume. He'd called America back, intending to give the nation a piece of his mind, but a young woman had answered his calls, claiming to be America's secretary.

The idea was mind blowing. When America really wanted work done, he typically did it himself. Just how much of a workload was he taking on?

England crossed a t with perhaps a bit more force than necessary; he left a hole in the paper.

America might have made an effort to clean up his act, but inwardly, he hadn't changed one whit. A childish attempt to get back at England, despite the fact that the nation had already apologized! He was still a child dressed up in a suit three sizes too large for him. Eventually he'd get bored and move back to his boyish antics.

But this is a good thing, his mind argued. Haven't you wanted America to clean up his act for years? Like it or not, he's the leader of the bloody free world. It's a very good thing he's investing more time and effort in his own government!

His green eyes flickered back to the article on his desk, with America and Russia standing side by side, looking the best of chums. England seized it, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into a wastebasket.

Then, he thought for a moment. Got up from his desk and chair, scooped up the wrinkled newspaper, and carefully unsmoothed it again. Picked up a pen, and drew a colossal mustache and goatee on Ivan's smiling face. As if in an afterthought, he blacked out several of Russia's teeth, too.

~*oOo*~

Weeks went by. Though England now made it a point to call America at least three times a week, he never got a response. His secretary kept claiming that the nation was out at a meeting or swamped at work, and regardless of how irked England got at the woman or how many threatening and insulting messages England left, America did not respond.

His spirits began to fall, and England's prime minister had taken to asking if England was quite alright every time the two met, much to the nation's annoyance. When the time came to leave for the next G-8 Conference (this time in Berlin), England hadn't at all bothered to painstakingly pack his case as he normally did. He simply shoved a few random handfuls of clothing he'd scooped from his drawers before hurrying off to the airport, not even bothering to brush his hair beforehand.

This nonsense had to be settled. Today. If America wouldn't listen to him, he'd make him listen.

When Arthur headed down to the meeting room, he heard America's voice and hastened down the hallway, only to come to an abrupt halt when he turned the corner and saw Russia and America deep in conversation. He cautiously drew back, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

"—is good," said Russia cheerfully, his violet eyes as bright as a child's. "Am very excited for it." America smiled warmly, and while it wasn't his normal quirky, overconfident heroic grin, it still made England's heart melt because it was so sincere and kind.

When was the last time America had looked at him in such a fashion? For God's sake, did America think that professionalism meant heartlessness? Arthur's green eyes began to frost over.

Once upon a time, that smile had only been reserved to a very select few, including himself. He remembered how disappointed he'd felt when he'd discovered that Canada was privy to it, too. Then it had been everyone's. The world's.

But America was still talking, and England strained his ears to listen:

"I'm really glad you're coming. The paparazzi won't even know we're there, and if we wear hats and shades, no one should even know that it's us. All the same, I'll tell the officials to increase security."

"Am sure that will not be problem," said Russia gently. "Though I appreciate thought. Am looking forward to all the rides! I do not know which one I will try first."

England raised one of his thick eyebrows, frowning in confusion. What were the two doing, planning an excursion? America grinned.

"Disney wouldn't be the same without you. It's been awhile since I've went, so I'm glad I have an excuse to go. Thankfully I have V.I.P passes, so I can show you everything AND get us to the front of the lines. Which get pretty amazingly long, if you don't mind me saying so."

Disney World? England went cold. That was America's pride and joy—hell, the Grand Canyon probably didn't mean quite so much to Alfred as that vomit and cotton candy covered tourist trap!

As Russia wandered off, America made to follow him, but England decided that enough was enough. He stepped out of his hiding place, trying to keep his gaze impassive instead of murderously jealous.

"Hello, America."

America blinked and looked away.

"Oh. Hello, En—"

"I couldn't help but overhear your plans with Russia," England interrupted dryly, glaring at his old protégé. "Are you really taking him to your favorite theme park?"

Before he could stop the flow of insanity in his head, he heard himself ask:

"Why didn't you ask me to come, too?"

America gave him a bewildered look.

"But you don't like Disney World," said Alfred slowly, as if explaining something perfectly rational to an irate two year old. "You don't even like Euro Disney. Russia's boss wanted to visit Disney a couple of years ago and we turned him down, so I thought it would be nice if—"

"Well of course I don't like Euro Disney, it's in bloody France!" snapped England, his face coloring. "But at the very least, you still could have thought of me, even if you know I hate your blasted amusement parks! Even if you KNEW I would say no, you could have at least of had the decency to ring me up and annoy me about it the way you always do!"

America just looked at him. For a moment, something trembled beneath his blue eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately, and the nation sent a disapproving look to his old master, like a parent who has caught their child sneaking sweets.

"You're being very immature about this." Alfred turned around, refusing to make eye contact with the shorter nation, who now felt perhaps two inches tall. "If you wanted to come so badly you could have made time out of your own schedule to visit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a presentation to set—"

SMACK!

England struck America across the face. The boy staggered. England raised his hand again, but it fell to his side when his psyche was almost immediately struck with humiliation and shame.

"You're a bloody git, you know that?" hissed England, bracing himself for the inevitable swing that would perhaps knock a few teeth out, dislocate his nose.

But America did nothing. He looked at the floor, a fresh pink handprint burning softly on his face. Then, he slowly walked into the meeting room without so much as a word.

And for whatever reason, that hurt more than anything else.

~*oOo*~

The meeting had ended. America had presented a flawless presentation on fighting poverty and famine in several third world countries. England had shuffled down in his seat and sulked for most of it, unwilling to say much of anything.

He was such a child. A petty, sulking child alone in a corner.

He knew it, and he loathed it. Almost as much as he loathed watching America leave the room with Russia's arm around his shoulder. He clutched his pen tightly as everyone left, imagining stabbing it through Russia's eye. He'd never put an arm around America's shoulder—America was typically the one who did that to England, despite his complaints—but now, the older country thought he wouldn't at all mind hearing America cheerily prattle on about nothing, his warm arm guiding a fussing England wherever he wanted to go. England's eyes flickered.

Once, he and Germany shared a very similar complaint; they were constantly being harangued by extremely childish, naïve countries who would call out for them at the drop of a hat. To this day, it wasn't exactly uncommon for Italy to call Germany crying after being bit by a cat or cutting his finger on a can, begging the irate nation to fly over and kiss his bandaged finger. England closed his eyes and sighed sadly.

He remembered the bizarre calls America would make out of the blue, the ones that had used to come so frequently just months ago….

"England?" America had asked spritely after the older nation barked out a greeting. "Hey bro, how are you doing?"

"America, I'm really very busy right now, so you better hope that this is important—"

"Oh, you bet it is," insisted America. "You see, I—hey, who are you, how did you get into my house? Wait, w-what is that? Oh, please tell me that's not a chainsaw—"

England froze in his seat as he heard the unmistakable sound of blades whirring, purring. "America, what's going on? If this—" He immediately broke off as America started yelling. It sounded like things were breaking and thumping onto the ground.

"Oh MAN, IT TOTALLY IS! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! England, there's A MANIAC IN THE HOUSE!" England had stammered to his feet, clutching at the phone for dear life.

"What?!" he demanded sharply, his green eyes wide with worry. "America, what the bloody hell—"

"A CHAINSAW!" Alfred screamed. "A CHAINSAW! GET AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT CHAINSAW! Ow! Ow! Owowowowowowow! Oh, the pain, the horrible pain! Hey, wait, what are you doing with that, where are you going to put that, why—OHMYGAWD, I NEED AN ADULT!"

Then, the unmistakable sound of an explosion filled his ears before the line abruptly went dead.

~*oOo*~

He'd stormed through America's house just hours later, fists clumsily raised and umbrella hoisted threateningly; the airport wouldn't allow him to take any weapons with him on the arsenal. America had been seated comfortably on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, in perfect health.

"I knew that would get your attention!" Alfred had exclaimed merrily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that England was staring at him, thunderstruck. Something on the television screen exploded. "Tony doesn't wanna go with me to the premiere sequel of this because he says it'll freaking suck, but he doesn't know what he's missing!"

England slowly shook his head. Dear, dear git. He'd almost completely lost it on America that day, but the nation had cried like a small child and pled that all he'd really wanted was to see England, especially considering that he'd been SO busy lately. That night, England had most grudgingly went to the stupid affair with America, hand in hand with the stupid, gleeful nation.

And after several very difficult months of social and economic turmoil, and a colossal amount of paperwork for England to deal with, America wound up kidnapping England and whisked him off to Hawaii. England gave the nation no end of grief for THAT one, but it had been rather nice.

I'm sorry. I sent you six letters saying so. What else do you want from me? Why are you hanging out with Russia? God, he sounded like a sad schoolgirl, even to himself! Are you actually trying to punish me, you heartless git?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back with a sigh. It was time for a drink.

~*oOo*~

Like I said, pretty ridiculous. May or may not continue this.