Fic: War and Things Like It, UK/US, NSFW
Nov. 25th, 2010 11:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jedishampooTitle: War and Things Like It (Part 1 of 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedishampoo
Pairing: England/America
Rating: R-l8 (smutsmut)
Summary: America is growing up, and gets an introduction into the world of war-- and other things.
Notes: Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme, the prompt “England/America, French and Indian War, America in the red coat, possessive!England” Here’s the Kink Meme link. This is pre-Revolutionary America, of course, but he’s definitely not a child, in case you were worried; I assumed he's of age for his time period, though technically he's over a hundred years old at this point and I enjoyed trying to write a more innocent, less repressed America. Thanks to the OP for the awesome request! And thank you to my amazing beta,whymzycal, who is the best ever at being encouraging while curbing my punctuation excesses. :) About 11,000 words.
War and Things Like It, Part 1 of 2
June, 1756
England had returned to North America. Boys were running through the streets of New York, whooping and hollering that white sails had been spotted, Milord Generals had come! Girls followed the boys in twos and threes, giggling and waving their hand-sewn Ensigns and chattering excitedly about the impending arrival of so many young men in red coats.
America stared out the window, clutching the curtains so tightly he almost yanked them from the hangers. He wanted to run to the harbor himself, whooping and hollering to show support and welcome. But he knew that England, stuffy, funny old England, would be totally irate at such a display. That might be a good enough reason to do it anyway, but then, that would be no way to prove that he, America, was growing into an adult, respectable colony and trade partner, now would it?
Besides, it would take time for England’s ships to tack into the harbor, drop their anchors, lower the jolly-boats and row ashore. So America finished reading the letter from the Ohio Company, the one whining about what the French and Indians had been doing on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and begging for men and supplies enough to tell France to fuck off; he might as well know what he was talking about when he met England. England liked it when America gave him information.
When America had memorized the letter, he folded it up neatly and tucked it into a drawer of his pine desk so it wouldn’t get lost before he could send it back to the governor. Then he combed his hair and checked it out in the fancy looking-glass England had brought him last visit. England always wanted him to look tidy and had given him a suit and a dressing-table, and hell, America was totally excited, too.
It had been years since America had last seen him; England had won America over and then disappeared for long stretches of time. Oh, America heard from England lots — every time an East Indiaman landed with tea or when England’s colonial governors sent him news from Parliament or His Majesty. But the only times England himself came to visit were when there was another stupid war in Europe that bled over into North America. Then he’d show up with new treaties and territory lines for America to protect and a list of people for America to nevah, evah talk to. Usually that meant France.
This time, though, the war had sort of started here.
Once America thought he looked presentable enough, he went outside. He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and strolled at an easy pace towards the harbor, though the collected emotion was so high he could barely walk straight. His people were excited and scared and giddy and so many things, and he felt everything — like he was every person in the world, shoved into a human body that could barely contain it all. And everyone, including him, was excited to see England.
Thus America was in the front of the crowd at the pier and was first to reach down into the first ship’s boat to grab England’s hand and pull him up to stand on the dock. His hand was warm, like a human’s.
“Greetings, boy,” England said, not quite smiling, and America grinned back.
“Hi, England!” he said, and smiled some more, unable at the moment to think of anything else to say. England’s eyes were green and he was wearing a red Marine’s uniform. He was one of them, and America had missed him terribly.
All around them the human tide thronged and ebbed as more Marines and sailors disembarked and were greeted by their American brothers and sisters. England waved the back of his palm at America.
“Move along, then,” he said with an eyebrow scowl, and America moved along. Like they’d never been there, they escaped the crowds and made their way to America’s house.
“So it’s war,” America said as they walked. He yanked his thumbs out of his trousers when England’s eyebrows formed a grumpy, deep vee in the direction of America’s crotch. “You totally declared war on France. And France wants the west, too, so he declared war back. Everybody wants me. Ha ha!”
“It’s not all about you, you know,” England told him. “All of Europe are at it again. They’ve all shuffled boundaries and alliances, and they’re all clutching at everything they can get on the continent. The bastards.”
“We appreciate the assist, anyway. The troops.”
“You‘re bloody expensive, you know that? We still have a national debt from trying to help that damned useless Austria.”
“We’ll help. We’ve been helping. Our militias—”
“Your militias don’t even have uniforms.” England stopped and looked America up and down. They’d reached his house, a little white-washed Cape Cod on the edge of town, still on cobbled streets but close enough to the farms to smell them. “I should have brought Prussia with me. He’d certainly help me whip you bunch of colonial farmers into shape.”
“No way. Prussia’s an asshole, England.”
England sighed and looked down the street, still talking as if he hadn’t heard America. “You’re still a child, however. You’ll learn.”
I’m bigger than you, jerk, America wanted to say, but because he loved England, he didn’t. England already knew that America was bigger and was kind of sensitive about it. His jaw had dropped all the way to the floor last time he’d visited and seen how America had grown, ha ha.
And America could only grow larger. He already felt as if he could stretch his arms from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi, could touch Canada with his head and plant his feet in New Orleans. Did that make his feet French? Whatever the case, he wasn’t a child, and he wished that England would just see that, already.
“Not true, England! We’re learning,” he said aloud, grinning again. He let England into his house and waited while England looked around and sniffed in that fun sort of hoity-toity way he had. “We’re loyal, and we’re crafty, and we know the land. We’ll help.”
As if he was mildly satisfied with what he’d seen of America’s house, England sniffed again and looked at him. Then he smiled, mouth all stretched and eyes all scrunched, and America’s stomach fluttered like it had hummingbird wings. His knees itched. Funny things happened to his human body when England smiled like that.
“Expensive or not, remind me to thank your Major Washington for that little fiasco at Great Meadows. I’m very much looking forward to punching France in the face again,” England said.
“Me too,” America said, and apologized silently to his feet.
********
Major George Washington sort of started the actual war by attacking the French at Jumonville Glen in 1754. He won that battle but ended up surrendering to the French not long after and then had to defend his actions to the big-wigs.
********
August 1756
“Bloody France. Bloody fucking France and his fucking Indians,” England moaned. He sat with a heavy-sounding thump on the log next to America.
England was in his shirtsleeves; he’d lost his uniform coat and boots to the angry Indians. America didn’t even have his shirt — only his pants and shoes — and was thankful that it was summer. They sat in a sun-dappled clearing, having left the sad ruins of Fort William Henry a mile through the forest behind them.
“At least we have our scalps,” America pointed out.
“What a fine time we’d have of it without them,” England spat, swiping his grimy hand over the top of his head. As blond as England was, the blood and mud and other things matting his hair really showed, America thought.
America realized that his hands were shaking. He clenched his fingers between his knees to still them, or warm them, or something. Anything. He could taste gunpowder smoke on his teeth.
The forest was quiet except for his and England’s breathing, and they were safe for the moment. Many of their people hadn’t been so lucky, however. They’d been speared like fish in Lake George. They’d died moaning and festering from injuries inflicted by rifle-fire. Some of them had been killed by their own exploding cannons, the artillery iron worn down by constant, ineffective firing at the French.
“I think I really hate this war,” America said.
England looked at him for a few long moments. He raised his hand, lowered it, then finally raised it again and patted America on the bare skin of his shoulder. His eyes were half-closed and gentle-looking.
“It’s a nasty business, lad. But a necessity in this world. You’ll get used to it.”
America didn’t answer, though England’s touch had helped. He took a deep breath, then released it in a long sigh. He didn’t want to get used to war. He wanted to go back to farming. Perhaps he’d learn to make stuff.
England was still talking. “Especially with bastards like that fucking France in this world. Worry not, however; we’ll get him. And his Indian allies.”
America shook his head and spoke without thinking. “I don’t really hate them.”
England stared at him as if he’d grown a third eyeball, and America quickly raised his palms in the air between them. “I mean — I do want France to stop telling me where I can and can’t go. But he did offer us really fair surrender terms for Fort W-H. Whaddya call ‘em — the honors of war? It’s just … the Indians are very angry, I think.”
England stared at America for a second or two more, then stretched out one of his legs and pointed to his bootless foot. His buff knee-breeches were covered in blood and mud to match his hair.
“Well, if that-bastard-France hadn’t lied to his own allies, then perhaps they’d be less angry.”
America nodded. From what they could tell, the Indians helping France had been promised a share of the booty from the attack on the fort as well as captives. And revenge. But France had instead offered the British the chance to leave with all their stuff, thus denying his own allies even as he treated his enemies with honor. The Indians thought the Europeans were all either nuts or in cahoots or both, and America couldn’t really blame them.
“So many people to fight,” he said aloud. So many people to please. America hoped that someday he’d be able to make his own choices regarding who to do which to. He could be all of them, perhaps. Hell, he could speak English, French, Dutch, Spanish — even some Algonquian and Cherokee …
First, though, they had to get through this. To win. He was British, first and foremost, by right of law. He needed to earn the right to be an equal partner.
“Fucking incompetents,” England was muttering. When America opened his mouth, England added, “Not you. Not just— Well. Our provincial militias did their part with very little training, I must say.”
America gaped. England had said our, and he’d been almost … complimentary. About the colonial soldiers.
“They totally did, didn’t they?” America crowed. He fisted his hands at his hips, and maybe he thrust out his chest a little. Maybe he thrust it out a lot.
England’s lip quirked the tiniest bit. Then he glanced down at America’s chest, all puffed out like a rooster’s, and his eyebrows drew down. It was a look, a weirdly intent look. His cheeks seemed pinker than they had before. Well, it was a warm day, America thought. Even this far north in New York, August was a very warm month. Very warm indeed. America stared at England, staring back at him. Then England looked away.
“Yes, yes. Well,” he said in a gruff tone. “I meant to say that Monro should never have been given charge of that fort. He wasted all the months he could have spent rebuilding his defenses merely waiting for reinforcements from Fort Edward.”
America shrugged. He was still very warm. “Maybe he thought France wouldn’t bother? I’m not sure why he did. He’ll have to leave soon, anyway, right? We have reinforcements and new commanders coming. Lots.”
“Ah! You are correct. You’ve read the dispatches, have you?” England looked at him again and smiled a little again, though he would only look at America’s face. “I’m pleased. Surprised and unnerved, perhaps, but pleased.”
America resisted the urge to tell England to drop dead, or to thrust his own bosom out again. But he still felt happier than he had in days. He was smarter than people realized.
England stood. He brushed at his remaining clothes as if it would actually help get the muck off — which it didn’t — and looked south, in the direction of Fort Edward and lands behind British lines. “I feel more confident leaving you to it, at the very least. I must away to the continent.”
America jumped to his feet as well. “What? This is a continent, you know. The war is here.”
“It is also in Europe and India. I have many concerns, America.”
“You’re abandoning me again.” America chafed his upper arms with his hands. A breeze had kicked up and the shade had gotten chilly.
“What? You’re an— well, you’ll be fine until I return. You already managed to grow into a bloody behemoth while I was off fighting for Austrian succession, did you not?”
“Whatever,” America said. He started walking down the trail in the opposite direction from Fort Edward. He brushed past England on the way. See if he’d even offer England his shoes — nuh-uh, no way, screw him. “I know you have important things to do.”
England yelled after him. “Dolt! Colonies are all bloody important! If you’ve read the dispatches, then you know that Mister Pitt has offered to pay the costs of war in North America. Use the money well! Buy your men some fucking proper uniforms, will you?”
“Right. Bye,” America said, waving behind him. He’d just have to work harder to earn his partnership. And, well — he did need clothes, it was true.
********
Note: Fort William Henry was a loss for the British, though they got it back really quickly when France took off north to reinforce Canada. And the Indians suffered terribly for helping the French in these battles; they were hit hard by smallpox.
********
April 1759
England had returned once more. America would see him that very evening, in fact, as England sailed into Halifax Harbor with the admirals who were meeting with the generals to plan a siege on Quebec. America counted the passing seconds in his head, even as he took twice as long as usual to dress, making his every movement as slow and deliberate as possible.
He’d totally fumed for weeks after England had left. He wasn’t completely sure why since he’d discovered that he did just fine without England’s physical presence. Even in this war he’d taken perfectly good care of himself. He’d had the help of British troops and Mister Prime Minister Pitt’s money, of course, but he’d made his own Indian allies, among them the powerful Iroquois. He’d raised more provincial militias and outfitted them. They’d had military successes, taking forts all along the St. Lawrence river into Canada — and boy, had Canada been pissed. He and France had blown up half the forts first, just so the British would get nothing good outta them.
It was just — he’d thought, maybe — if England couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see how awesome America was becoming, could he?
America had even ordered uniforms for himself using Britain’s money. Regular old suits he didn’t give a crap about, but he could see how military uniforms were different: they served a purpose. They showed that you had purpose.
Different occasions called for different uniforms. America wore the blue coat with red lining when he was marching or camping with the Virginia militias. He wore his green coat and brown buckskins when he was hanging with the rangers. For the upcoming meeting, he was going to wear the uniform that belonged with the First Royal Regiment of Foot, the one that was all patriotic with its red coat and blue facing and white lace.
Throw in white breeches and white under-everything for marching in the mud — the uniforms looked great, but didn’t make much sense. Still, America was oddly proud of his knee-breeches, so perfectly tailored they looked like they’d been sewed onto him. Surely England would find no fault with those! He held his white gaiters and neck-stock up in the weak light coming through the tent-flap, looking to be sure they were pristine.
Once he had white-under-everything on, he unfolded his red wool waistcoat. It was nice and warm for cool April days in Canada, and he had to admit he liked the style with its silver-embroidered tails that ended at mid-thigh. His guys had promised him that it was the very latest thing, replacing the older waistcoats that hung to the knees. Maybe England would be impressed by that, too.
“Don’t know why I care what the ol’ jerk thinks about how I look,” America said to himself as he slipped his arms into the matching coat. It was heavy, with all its red wool outside and blue wool inside and silver frogging and buttons. Heavy and purposeful.
He didn’t have a looking-glass in his tent, so he couldn’t give himself the once-over. But he thought he’d cocked his tricorne just right, and hung his hanger-hanging-sword just right, and—
“I totally don’t care,” he said, more loudly.
“He in there?” a voice filtered through from the outside. It was England.
“Fuck!” America said, then covered his mouth. How the Puritans and Quakers would cringe to hear him say that aloud!
England was none too happy about it, either. He pushed into the tent, yanking off his tricorne and looking at America with a tooth-baring grin that went up and eyebrows that went down.
“Is that to be my greeting, America?”
“What are you talking about? Hi, England,” America said. He buckled his shoes and stood, smiling his realest smile. It wasn’t difficult, because he was, to his secret mortification, amazingly happy to see England. To stop his arms from trying to hug anyone he brushed his palms over the blue turn-ups at the hem of his jacket, checking to see that he’d buttoned them correctly.
Then America suffered an acute few seconds as his heart thumped hard twice— maybe three times— against his breastbone, so hard he could feel it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He watched as England’s badger-grin faded and his eyes widened the tiniest bit and he stared at America with That Look, the intent one that made America’s belly feel all warm and twitchy. That was he’d missed so very much without realizing it— the tiny moments when England saw him, really saw him. “When America thought he might have actually affected England in some way.
“I didn’t powder my hair,” America said, too stupid to say anything else.
“Waste of time,” England mumbled. He glanced away and brushed at his own damp hair with his free hand. When he turned his gaze back to America, he looked more like his old self: haughty, evasive. America felt his heart slow and instantly missed that feeling of physical panic, of awareness in every limb. His human body was becoming greedy for things that he couldn’t have and probably weren’t right to want in the first place.
“What you do you think?” America finally said, waving his coat lapels at England. “Do I look like a proper British officer?”
“You look very fine,” England said, not even looking at him. He was examining his own hat in his hands, the inside of the tent canvas— anything but America. “Are you joining me aboard Sutherland or not?”
“Duh,” America said. He let go his lapels and waved at the tent-flap.
As they walked to the boats that would row them out to the Sutherland — at anchor in the harbor — America checked England out. He was pale, but that was nothing new. His red waistcoat was short, the same length as America’s. His breeches and gaiters were too loose, however. America wondered if he should worry, wondered what England’s body looked like under them. Would he be too thin? Was he bruised? Or was he merely worn lean and tight by fighting?
And then America realized that he’d been thinking about England naked. His face felt like it’d caught fire. So. There was that, too.
America knew what people — humans — did when they were naked. What he didn’t know for sure was whether they did it, too. France had seriously groped him a couple of times and had whispered some very shocking and exciting-sounding things, so America supposed that some of them must.
But England? Stuffy, funny old England?
Then they were at the boats and America had to stop thinking about it. England was back to normal, fussing and griping and ordering people about.
It took longer to row out to the flagship and back than it had taken for them to meet the military heads. What was important was that they’d been there; this was history-making stuff for sure.
Within a few hours he and England were alone again. America’s tent had been set up for their dinner, with several whale-oil lanterns for light, and someone had supplied red wine. Lots of it.
England poured full glasses of wine for both of them. He took a healthy gulp from his glass and then sighed, like he’d been parched for booze. America just sipped at his. It was dry and rich-tasting. He’d gotten used to the crisp beer brewed in Philly and Boston.
With a tap, tap of his fingernail on the edge of his glass, England sank down a little in his camp-chair and sort of smiled. He pretty much ignored his food.
“So my troops have done very well in my absence,” he said.
“Yeah, we did just fine. Pretty awesome, in fact,” America said, smiling back, a little ashamed to be looking for praise.
But England just took another gulp of wine like he hadn’t heard. “It’s a relief to be across the Atlantic, frankly. Europe is fucked. Prussia blathered constantly about how he was going to punish France, but he can barely hold onto Silesia. At least we’ve managed to reassert British rights to trade in Africa and India.”
“And then Canada,” America said, taking a bite of his pheasant. He thought about his men, surviving on salt pork and rum like England’s regulars.
“And then Canada,” England agreed. He tipped his wine glass at America, then drained it. His pale cheeks were tinged with color, visible even in the shifting, scarce lamplight. “Things will be different in Canada, lad. Government-wise, that is.”
To forestall any of the expected complaining about American assemblies and the assertive independence of England’s American colonists — he’d heard plenty about that already in England’s letters — America smiled in what he thought was an eager way. “We still have to fight Quebec first, ha ha. We’ll all be doing drills for a while. They said they wanted all the men to learn how to climb up and down the ships, right? Over and over and over and over—”
England snorted. “Someone has to teach the farmers how to make war.”
“We’ve learned pretty well, thanks,” America sighed. He loved England lots, but he was getting tired of being … put in his place, he supposed it was. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted to be the thing that mattered most, more than punching France and getting trade-rights. He wanted England to touch him with his warm hands and smile at him. He wanted to be an equal. Nothing like wishing for the moon.
England poured more wine for himself. The bottle in his hand hovered across the table but jerked short when he saw how little America had been drinking.
America picked up his wine and swirled it in the glass for a few seconds. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to knit?”
That cracked a grin out of England. “Oh, Lord. A wasted enterprise.”
“I know, right?” America sipped his wine to make England even more happy. He sipped a little too much and felt the alcohol fumes trickle up his nose to numb his brain. “France offered to show me how to trap fur, you know. I don’t think he was always talking about beaver. Or maybe he was. I dunno.”
“What?” England pointed at him so violently with his half-full glass that wine sloshed out and onto America’s pheasant. “You tell that fucking France to keep his lessons to himself! You don’t need to learn anything from him.”
“France offered to teach me lots of things,” America said, deliberately wide-eyed. “I told him no, of course!”
England gaped at him with his mouth open.
“There’s more stuff you could teach me, I guess,” America said, trying to cajole the stunned expression off of England’s face.
England picked up his jaw and used it to take another sip of wine. “Hrm. What do you want to learn, America?” His voice was slow and cautious-sounding.
Oh, stuff the strict religious types don’t want me to know or want anybody to do, really. What it feels like to have someone else to rub the hard and ache-y parts of my body all over, instead of just my hand. You’re the being I care about most out of the whole wide world, so maybe you could show me these things.
“I dunno,” America said aloud, willing himself to say more and failing miserably.
England stared at him in silence, his eyes narrowed as if his eyebrows were pushing his lids to half-mast. His cheeks were pink and his nose was pink, and they just got redder the more wine he drank, as if the wine were blood, suffusing him with life. America watched, fascinated.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” England said after a while. His voice was low.
“Like what?”
“You’re so very bold, America. You should behave more like … like …”
America wished he were a little bolder, actually. “Like Canada?”
“Yes! Exactly bloody right. Like Canada.” England drained what was left of his wine and poured more. That time he added to America’s glass as well. “He has this downcast eyes sort of thing. Very servile.”
“That’s because Canada has no rights,” America scoffed. He took another decent-sized sip of wine. It got easier to swallow the more he drank. “I have the rights of a British citizen.”
“Hmm. Damned expensive citizen,” England mumbled.
America stayed silent for a bit and thought. It was a little difficult, what with all the brain-numbness creeping up on him. He couldn’t believe that was what England wanted. Downcast eyes? Servility? There was being put in his place, and then there was being … being …
Accommodating? Maybe England actually liked that sort of thing. America decided to try doing it, to try lowering his eyes. They fell on his food. He realized that probably needed to eat because of the booze. He took a bite of wine-soaked pheasant. He could feel England watching him.
“Your uniform fits you very well,” he heard England say.
“Thanks, England!” Screw being servile; America jumped to his feet and lifted his coat- and waistcoat-tails to show off his breeches. “Look at these! I thought you’d like ‘em.”
“Now why would you think that?” England said in his low voice again, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Because you like that kind of thing.”
If it was possible for England’s face to get any redder, then it did. He jumped to his feet as well and grabbed his tricorne from its hanging-hook. “I’d better get back to my cabin aboard the Hawk. As you noted, we have many drills on the morrow.”
America dropped his coat-tails. “But you haven’t eaten anything yet!”
“Nevertheless.” England stepped forward, his head down.
America was blocking the tent-flap exit. Instead of being nice and servile like he’d promised himself to try, he didn’t move out the way, just stared at England. Stared down, at the top of England’s head. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, wishing he hadn’t but deciding he could blame it on the wine.
England’s shoulders slumped a little, but after a second or two he straightened and looked America in the eye. Then he looked up. Then he reached out and touched a lock of America’s hair.
“You always have this … this unruly bit, here,” England said. He was so close that America could smell the wine on his breath. His body felt pulled tight over every inch of his skin, like all of him was tense, waiting, hot. He touched the silver trim on England’s jacket cuff, then started to run his fingers over the wool of his sleeve—
“Good night, America,” England said, and America stumbled as he was summarily pushed out of the way. Soon England was gone, into the fog of a Halifax evening.
.
TBC in Part Two (link)
.
Author:
jedishampooPairing: England/America
Rating: R-l8 (smutsmut)
Summary: America is growing up, and gets an introduction into the world of war-- and other things.
Notes: Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme, the prompt “England/America, French and Indian War, America in the red coat, possessive!England” Here’s the Kink Meme link. This is pre-Revolutionary America, of course, but he’s definitely not a child, in case you were worried; I assumed he's of age for his time period, though technically he's over a hundred years old at this point and I enjoyed trying to write a more innocent, less repressed America. Thanks to the OP for the awesome request! And thank you to my amazing beta,
whymzycal, who is the best ever at being encouraging while curbing my punctuation excesses. :) About 11,000 words.War and Things Like It, Part 1 of 2
June, 1756
England had returned to North America. Boys were running through the streets of New York, whooping and hollering that white sails had been spotted, Milord Generals had come! Girls followed the boys in twos and threes, giggling and waving their hand-sewn Ensigns and chattering excitedly about the impending arrival of so many young men in red coats.
America stared out the window, clutching the curtains so tightly he almost yanked them from the hangers. He wanted to run to the harbor himself, whooping and hollering to show support and welcome. But he knew that England, stuffy, funny old England, would be totally irate at such a display. That might be a good enough reason to do it anyway, but then, that would be no way to prove that he, America, was growing into an adult, respectable colony and trade partner, now would it?
Besides, it would take time for England’s ships to tack into the harbor, drop their anchors, lower the jolly-boats and row ashore. So America finished reading the letter from the Ohio Company, the one whining about what the French and Indians had been doing on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and begging for men and supplies enough to tell France to fuck off; he might as well know what he was talking about when he met England. England liked it when America gave him information.
When America had memorized the letter, he folded it up neatly and tucked it into a drawer of his pine desk so it wouldn’t get lost before he could send it back to the governor. Then he combed his hair and checked it out in the fancy looking-glass England had brought him last visit. England always wanted him to look tidy and had given him a suit and a dressing-table, and hell, America was totally excited, too.
It had been years since America had last seen him; England had won America over and then disappeared for long stretches of time. Oh, America heard from England lots — every time an East Indiaman landed with tea or when England’s colonial governors sent him news from Parliament or His Majesty. But the only times England himself came to visit were when there was another stupid war in Europe that bled over into North America. Then he’d show up with new treaties and territory lines for America to protect and a list of people for America to nevah, evah talk to. Usually that meant France.
This time, though, the war had sort of started here.
Once America thought he looked presentable enough, he went outside. He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and strolled at an easy pace towards the harbor, though the collected emotion was so high he could barely walk straight. His people were excited and scared and giddy and so many things, and he felt everything — like he was every person in the world, shoved into a human body that could barely contain it all. And everyone, including him, was excited to see England.
Thus America was in the front of the crowd at the pier and was first to reach down into the first ship’s boat to grab England’s hand and pull him up to stand on the dock. His hand was warm, like a human’s.
“Greetings, boy,” England said, not quite smiling, and America grinned back.
“Hi, England!” he said, and smiled some more, unable at the moment to think of anything else to say. England’s eyes were green and he was wearing a red Marine’s uniform. He was one of them, and America had missed him terribly.
All around them the human tide thronged and ebbed as more Marines and sailors disembarked and were greeted by their American brothers and sisters. England waved the back of his palm at America.
“Move along, then,” he said with an eyebrow scowl, and America moved along. Like they’d never been there, they escaped the crowds and made their way to America’s house.
“So it’s war,” America said as they walked. He yanked his thumbs out of his trousers when England’s eyebrows formed a grumpy, deep vee in the direction of America’s crotch. “You totally declared war on France. And France wants the west, too, so he declared war back. Everybody wants me. Ha ha!”
“It’s not all about you, you know,” England told him. “All of Europe are at it again. They’ve all shuffled boundaries and alliances, and they’re all clutching at everything they can get on the continent. The bastards.”
“We appreciate the assist, anyway. The troops.”
“You‘re bloody expensive, you know that? We still have a national debt from trying to help that damned useless Austria.”
“We’ll help. We’ve been helping. Our militias—”
“Your militias don’t even have uniforms.” England stopped and looked America up and down. They’d reached his house, a little white-washed Cape Cod on the edge of town, still on cobbled streets but close enough to the farms to smell them. “I should have brought Prussia with me. He’d certainly help me whip you bunch of colonial farmers into shape.”
“No way. Prussia’s an asshole, England.”
England sighed and looked down the street, still talking as if he hadn’t heard America. “You’re still a child, however. You’ll learn.”
I’m bigger than you, jerk, America wanted to say, but because he loved England, he didn’t. England already knew that America was bigger and was kind of sensitive about it. His jaw had dropped all the way to the floor last time he’d visited and seen how America had grown, ha ha.
And America could only grow larger. He already felt as if he could stretch his arms from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi, could touch Canada with his head and plant his feet in New Orleans. Did that make his feet French? Whatever the case, he wasn’t a child, and he wished that England would just see that, already.
“Not true, England! We’re learning,” he said aloud, grinning again. He let England into his house and waited while England looked around and sniffed in that fun sort of hoity-toity way he had. “We’re loyal, and we’re crafty, and we know the land. We’ll help.”
As if he was mildly satisfied with what he’d seen of America’s house, England sniffed again and looked at him. Then he smiled, mouth all stretched and eyes all scrunched, and America’s stomach fluttered like it had hummingbird wings. His knees itched. Funny things happened to his human body when England smiled like that.
“Expensive or not, remind me to thank your Major Washington for that little fiasco at Great Meadows. I’m very much looking forward to punching France in the face again,” England said.
“Me too,” America said, and apologized silently to his feet.
********
Major George Washington sort of started the actual war by attacking the French at Jumonville Glen in 1754. He won that battle but ended up surrendering to the French not long after and then had to defend his actions to the big-wigs.
********
August 1756
“Bloody France. Bloody fucking France and his fucking Indians,” England moaned. He sat with a heavy-sounding thump on the log next to America.
England was in his shirtsleeves; he’d lost his uniform coat and boots to the angry Indians. America didn’t even have his shirt — only his pants and shoes — and was thankful that it was summer. They sat in a sun-dappled clearing, having left the sad ruins of Fort William Henry a mile through the forest behind them.
“At least we have our scalps,” America pointed out.
“What a fine time we’d have of it without them,” England spat, swiping his grimy hand over the top of his head. As blond as England was, the blood and mud and other things matting his hair really showed, America thought.
America realized that his hands were shaking. He clenched his fingers between his knees to still them, or warm them, or something. Anything. He could taste gunpowder smoke on his teeth.
The forest was quiet except for his and England’s breathing, and they were safe for the moment. Many of their people hadn’t been so lucky, however. They’d been speared like fish in Lake George. They’d died moaning and festering from injuries inflicted by rifle-fire. Some of them had been killed by their own exploding cannons, the artillery iron worn down by constant, ineffective firing at the French.
“I think I really hate this war,” America said.
England looked at him for a few long moments. He raised his hand, lowered it, then finally raised it again and patted America on the bare skin of his shoulder. His eyes were half-closed and gentle-looking.
“It’s a nasty business, lad. But a necessity in this world. You’ll get used to it.”
America didn’t answer, though England’s touch had helped. He took a deep breath, then released it in a long sigh. He didn’t want to get used to war. He wanted to go back to farming. Perhaps he’d learn to make stuff.
England was still talking. “Especially with bastards like that fucking France in this world. Worry not, however; we’ll get him. And his Indian allies.”
America shook his head and spoke without thinking. “I don’t really hate them.”
England stared at him as if he’d grown a third eyeball, and America quickly raised his palms in the air between them. “I mean — I do want France to stop telling me where I can and can’t go. But he did offer us really fair surrender terms for Fort W-H. Whaddya call ‘em — the honors of war? It’s just … the Indians are very angry, I think.”
England stared at America for a second or two more, then stretched out one of his legs and pointed to his bootless foot. His buff knee-breeches were covered in blood and mud to match his hair.
“Well, if that-bastard-France hadn’t lied to his own allies, then perhaps they’d be less angry.”
America nodded. From what they could tell, the Indians helping France had been promised a share of the booty from the attack on the fort as well as captives. And revenge. But France had instead offered the British the chance to leave with all their stuff, thus denying his own allies even as he treated his enemies with honor. The Indians thought the Europeans were all either nuts or in cahoots or both, and America couldn’t really blame them.
“So many people to fight,” he said aloud. So many people to please. America hoped that someday he’d be able to make his own choices regarding who to do which to. He could be all of them, perhaps. Hell, he could speak English, French, Dutch, Spanish — even some Algonquian and Cherokee …
First, though, they had to get through this. To win. He was British, first and foremost, by right of law. He needed to earn the right to be an equal partner.
“Fucking incompetents,” England was muttering. When America opened his mouth, England added, “Not you. Not just— Well. Our provincial militias did their part with very little training, I must say.”
America gaped. England had said our, and he’d been almost … complimentary. About the colonial soldiers.
“They totally did, didn’t they?” America crowed. He fisted his hands at his hips, and maybe he thrust out his chest a little. Maybe he thrust it out a lot.
England’s lip quirked the tiniest bit. Then he glanced down at America’s chest, all puffed out like a rooster’s, and his eyebrows drew down. It was a look, a weirdly intent look. His cheeks seemed pinker than they had before. Well, it was a warm day, America thought. Even this far north in New York, August was a very warm month. Very warm indeed. America stared at England, staring back at him. Then England looked away.
“Yes, yes. Well,” he said in a gruff tone. “I meant to say that Monro should never have been given charge of that fort. He wasted all the months he could have spent rebuilding his defenses merely waiting for reinforcements from Fort Edward.”
America shrugged. He was still very warm. “Maybe he thought France wouldn’t bother? I’m not sure why he did. He’ll have to leave soon, anyway, right? We have reinforcements and new commanders coming. Lots.”
“Ah! You are correct. You’ve read the dispatches, have you?” England looked at him again and smiled a little again, though he would only look at America’s face. “I’m pleased. Surprised and unnerved, perhaps, but pleased.”
America resisted the urge to tell England to drop dead, or to thrust his own bosom out again. But he still felt happier than he had in days. He was smarter than people realized.
England stood. He brushed at his remaining clothes as if it would actually help get the muck off — which it didn’t — and looked south, in the direction of Fort Edward and lands behind British lines. “I feel more confident leaving you to it, at the very least. I must away to the continent.”
America jumped to his feet as well. “What? This is a continent, you know. The war is here.”
“It is also in Europe and India. I have many concerns, America.”
“You’re abandoning me again.” America chafed his upper arms with his hands. A breeze had kicked up and the shade had gotten chilly.
“What? You’re an— well, you’ll be fine until I return. You already managed to grow into a bloody behemoth while I was off fighting for Austrian succession, did you not?”
“Whatever,” America said. He started walking down the trail in the opposite direction from Fort Edward. He brushed past England on the way. See if he’d even offer England his shoes — nuh-uh, no way, screw him. “I know you have important things to do.”
England yelled after him. “Dolt! Colonies are all bloody important! If you’ve read the dispatches, then you know that Mister Pitt has offered to pay the costs of war in North America. Use the money well! Buy your men some fucking proper uniforms, will you?”
“Right. Bye,” America said, waving behind him. He’d just have to work harder to earn his partnership. And, well — he did need clothes, it was true.
********
Note: Fort William Henry was a loss for the British, though they got it back really quickly when France took off north to reinforce Canada. And the Indians suffered terribly for helping the French in these battles; they were hit hard by smallpox.
********
April 1759
England had returned once more. America would see him that very evening, in fact, as England sailed into Halifax Harbor with the admirals who were meeting with the generals to plan a siege on Quebec. America counted the passing seconds in his head, even as he took twice as long as usual to dress, making his every movement as slow and deliberate as possible.
He’d totally fumed for weeks after England had left. He wasn’t completely sure why since he’d discovered that he did just fine without England’s physical presence. Even in this war he’d taken perfectly good care of himself. He’d had the help of British troops and Mister Prime Minister Pitt’s money, of course, but he’d made his own Indian allies, among them the powerful Iroquois. He’d raised more provincial militias and outfitted them. They’d had military successes, taking forts all along the St. Lawrence river into Canada — and boy, had Canada been pissed. He and France had blown up half the forts first, just so the British would get nothing good outta them.
It was just — he’d thought, maybe — if England couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see how awesome America was becoming, could he?
America had even ordered uniforms for himself using Britain’s money. Regular old suits he didn’t give a crap about, but he could see how military uniforms were different: they served a purpose. They showed that you had purpose.
Different occasions called for different uniforms. America wore the blue coat with red lining when he was marching or camping with the Virginia militias. He wore his green coat and brown buckskins when he was hanging with the rangers. For the upcoming meeting, he was going to wear the uniform that belonged with the First Royal Regiment of Foot, the one that was all patriotic with its red coat and blue facing and white lace.
Throw in white breeches and white under-everything for marching in the mud — the uniforms looked great, but didn’t make much sense. Still, America was oddly proud of his knee-breeches, so perfectly tailored they looked like they’d been sewed onto him. Surely England would find no fault with those! He held his white gaiters and neck-stock up in the weak light coming through the tent-flap, looking to be sure they were pristine.
Once he had white-under-everything on, he unfolded his red wool waistcoat. It was nice and warm for cool April days in Canada, and he had to admit he liked the style with its silver-embroidered tails that ended at mid-thigh. His guys had promised him that it was the very latest thing, replacing the older waistcoats that hung to the knees. Maybe England would be impressed by that, too.
“Don’t know why I care what the ol’ jerk thinks about how I look,” America said to himself as he slipped his arms into the matching coat. It was heavy, with all its red wool outside and blue wool inside and silver frogging and buttons. Heavy and purposeful.
He didn’t have a looking-glass in his tent, so he couldn’t give himself the once-over. But he thought he’d cocked his tricorne just right, and hung his hanger-hanging-sword just right, and—
“I totally don’t care,” he said, more loudly.
“He in there?” a voice filtered through from the outside. It was England.
“Fuck!” America said, then covered his mouth. How the Puritans and Quakers would cringe to hear him say that aloud!
England was none too happy about it, either. He pushed into the tent, yanking off his tricorne and looking at America with a tooth-baring grin that went up and eyebrows that went down.
“Is that to be my greeting, America?”
“What are you talking about? Hi, England,” America said. He buckled his shoes and stood, smiling his realest smile. It wasn’t difficult, because he was, to his secret mortification, amazingly happy to see England. To stop his arms from trying to hug anyone he brushed his palms over the blue turn-ups at the hem of his jacket, checking to see that he’d buttoned them correctly.
Then America suffered an acute few seconds as his heart thumped hard twice— maybe three times— against his breastbone, so hard he could feel it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He watched as England’s badger-grin faded and his eyes widened the tiniest bit and he stared at America with That Look, the intent one that made America’s belly feel all warm and twitchy. That was he’d missed so very much without realizing it— the tiny moments when England saw him, really saw him. “When America thought he might have actually affected England in some way.
“I didn’t powder my hair,” America said, too stupid to say anything else.
“Waste of time,” England mumbled. He glanced away and brushed at his own damp hair with his free hand. When he turned his gaze back to America, he looked more like his old self: haughty, evasive. America felt his heart slow and instantly missed that feeling of physical panic, of awareness in every limb. His human body was becoming greedy for things that he couldn’t have and probably weren’t right to want in the first place.
“What you do you think?” America finally said, waving his coat lapels at England. “Do I look like a proper British officer?”
“You look very fine,” England said, not even looking at him. He was examining his own hat in his hands, the inside of the tent canvas— anything but America. “Are you joining me aboard Sutherland or not?”
“Duh,” America said. He let go his lapels and waved at the tent-flap.
As they walked to the boats that would row them out to the Sutherland — at anchor in the harbor — America checked England out. He was pale, but that was nothing new. His red waistcoat was short, the same length as America’s. His breeches and gaiters were too loose, however. America wondered if he should worry, wondered what England’s body looked like under them. Would he be too thin? Was he bruised? Or was he merely worn lean and tight by fighting?
And then America realized that he’d been thinking about England naked. His face felt like it’d caught fire. So. There was that, too.
America knew what people — humans — did when they were naked. What he didn’t know for sure was whether they did it, too. France had seriously groped him a couple of times and had whispered some very shocking and exciting-sounding things, so America supposed that some of them must.
But England? Stuffy, funny old England?
Then they were at the boats and America had to stop thinking about it. England was back to normal, fussing and griping and ordering people about.
It took longer to row out to the flagship and back than it had taken for them to meet the military heads. What was important was that they’d been there; this was history-making stuff for sure.
Within a few hours he and England were alone again. America’s tent had been set up for their dinner, with several whale-oil lanterns for light, and someone had supplied red wine. Lots of it.
England poured full glasses of wine for both of them. He took a healthy gulp from his glass and then sighed, like he’d been parched for booze. America just sipped at his. It was dry and rich-tasting. He’d gotten used to the crisp beer brewed in Philly and Boston.
With a tap, tap of his fingernail on the edge of his glass, England sank down a little in his camp-chair and sort of smiled. He pretty much ignored his food.
“So my troops have done very well in my absence,” he said.
“Yeah, we did just fine. Pretty awesome, in fact,” America said, smiling back, a little ashamed to be looking for praise.
But England just took another gulp of wine like he hadn’t heard. “It’s a relief to be across the Atlantic, frankly. Europe is fucked. Prussia blathered constantly about how he was going to punish France, but he can barely hold onto Silesia. At least we’ve managed to reassert British rights to trade in Africa and India.”
“And then Canada,” America said, taking a bite of his pheasant. He thought about his men, surviving on salt pork and rum like England’s regulars.
“And then Canada,” England agreed. He tipped his wine glass at America, then drained it. His pale cheeks were tinged with color, visible even in the shifting, scarce lamplight. “Things will be different in Canada, lad. Government-wise, that is.”
To forestall any of the expected complaining about American assemblies and the assertive independence of England’s American colonists — he’d heard plenty about that already in England’s letters — America smiled in what he thought was an eager way. “We still have to fight Quebec first, ha ha. We’ll all be doing drills for a while. They said they wanted all the men to learn how to climb up and down the ships, right? Over and over and over and over—”
England snorted. “Someone has to teach the farmers how to make war.”
“We’ve learned pretty well, thanks,” America sighed. He loved England lots, but he was getting tired of being … put in his place, he supposed it was. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted to be the thing that mattered most, more than punching France and getting trade-rights. He wanted England to touch him with his warm hands and smile at him. He wanted to be an equal. Nothing like wishing for the moon.
England poured more wine for himself. The bottle in his hand hovered across the table but jerked short when he saw how little America had been drinking.
America picked up his wine and swirled it in the glass for a few seconds. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to knit?”
That cracked a grin out of England. “Oh, Lord. A wasted enterprise.”
“I know, right?” America sipped his wine to make England even more happy. He sipped a little too much and felt the alcohol fumes trickle up his nose to numb his brain. “France offered to show me how to trap fur, you know. I don’t think he was always talking about beaver. Or maybe he was. I dunno.”
“What?” England pointed at him so violently with his half-full glass that wine sloshed out and onto America’s pheasant. “You tell that fucking France to keep his lessons to himself! You don’t need to learn anything from him.”
“France offered to teach me lots of things,” America said, deliberately wide-eyed. “I told him no, of course!”
England gaped at him with his mouth open.
“There’s more stuff you could teach me, I guess,” America said, trying to cajole the stunned expression off of England’s face.
England picked up his jaw and used it to take another sip of wine. “Hrm. What do you want to learn, America?” His voice was slow and cautious-sounding.
Oh, stuff the strict religious types don’t want me to know or want anybody to do, really. What it feels like to have someone else to rub the hard and ache-y parts of my body all over, instead of just my hand. You’re the being I care about most out of the whole wide world, so maybe you could show me these things.
“I dunno,” America said aloud, willing himself to say more and failing miserably.
England stared at him in silence, his eyes narrowed as if his eyebrows were pushing his lids to half-mast. His cheeks were pink and his nose was pink, and they just got redder the more wine he drank, as if the wine were blood, suffusing him with life. America watched, fascinated.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” England said after a while. His voice was low.
“Like what?”
“You’re so very bold, America. You should behave more like … like …”
America wished he were a little bolder, actually. “Like Canada?”
“Yes! Exactly bloody right. Like Canada.” England drained what was left of his wine and poured more. That time he added to America’s glass as well. “He has this downcast eyes sort of thing. Very servile.”
“That’s because Canada has no rights,” America scoffed. He took another decent-sized sip of wine. It got easier to swallow the more he drank. “I have the rights of a British citizen.”
“Hmm. Damned expensive citizen,” England mumbled.
America stayed silent for a bit and thought. It was a little difficult, what with all the brain-numbness creeping up on him. He couldn’t believe that was what England wanted. Downcast eyes? Servility? There was being put in his place, and then there was being … being …
Accommodating? Maybe England actually liked that sort of thing. America decided to try doing it, to try lowering his eyes. They fell on his food. He realized that probably needed to eat because of the booze. He took a bite of wine-soaked pheasant. He could feel England watching him.
“Your uniform fits you very well,” he heard England say.
“Thanks, England!” Screw being servile; America jumped to his feet and lifted his coat- and waistcoat-tails to show off his breeches. “Look at these! I thought you’d like ‘em.”
“Now why would you think that?” England said in his low voice again, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Because you like that kind of thing.”
If it was possible for England’s face to get any redder, then it did. He jumped to his feet as well and grabbed his tricorne from its hanging-hook. “I’d better get back to my cabin aboard the Hawk. As you noted, we have many drills on the morrow.”
America dropped his coat-tails. “But you haven’t eaten anything yet!”
“Nevertheless.” England stepped forward, his head down.
America was blocking the tent-flap exit. Instead of being nice and servile like he’d promised himself to try, he didn’t move out the way, just stared at England. Stared down, at the top of England’s head. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, wishing he hadn’t but deciding he could blame it on the wine.
England’s shoulders slumped a little, but after a second or two he straightened and looked America in the eye. Then he looked up. Then he reached out and touched a lock of America’s hair.
“You always have this … this unruly bit, here,” England said. He was so close that America could smell the wine on his breath. His body felt pulled tight over every inch of his skin, like all of him was tense, waiting, hot. He touched the silver trim on England’s jacket cuff, then started to run his fingers over the wool of his sleeve—
“Good night, America,” England said, and America stumbled as he was summarily pushed out of the way. Soon England was gone, into the fog of a Halifax evening.
.
TBC in Part Two (link)
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