An Objective Reevaluation [England & America]

[england]

((Er, well...I've finally posted something! Shamefully short and riddled with poor attempts at characterization as it is. Posted without much editing. I'll probably modify when I get back onto a decent computer after some decent sleep.))

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New England – November, 1762

Peace. England snorted. Even Parliament had the sense to see that this was only a temporary lull in a dispute that was far from finished. He’d been fighting the French bastard for the better part of seven hundred years, and the conquests he’d made in the other nation’s empire had offered only fleeting satisfaction. He might have been a child kicking up pebbles for all the profound, lasting contentment it brought him. Now, now, he chided himself. No need to wax philosophical. When one could count a full millennium in their age, one did best to accept the restlessness, the ennui, as integral parts of his personality and do his faithful best to keep them at bay. War was the chosen pastime of the era, and what an engaging pastime it was, distressing as it seemed to these powdered diplomats who, unconscious of their incurably restless nations, talked of “peace.”

Very well. He’d make the best of it. He had more than a few creative ideas in the field of “negotiation,” after all, even if His Majesty did expect him to play nicely. The new king's concillatory frame of mind gave England the nasty feeling that he’d be returning a few gains--but at least he could amuse himself with the predicament of that charming little boy who so resembled Alfred. He didn’t see why it shouldn’t be brought to the child’s attention that his former guardian would go to no great lengths to reclaim him—not when a casual offer of the restoration of other, more valuable territories was presented.

On second thought, perhaps the diplomats were more conscious of their creditors than any burning sense of pacifism.

England pushed his hair back from his forehead; despite the relatively cool weather, he found it dampened by a thin sheen of sweat. The debt had widened its ugly jaws with an alarming voracity, and it left him feeling weary, almost stiff. Yes, perhaps it was prudent to lick his wounds and puzzle out the knotty problem of where the hell the money was going to come from before he came off the worse for wear in a bayonet fight again. Spain had given him a few unpleasant scars—and been paid back in kind. France's ineffective meddling in Germany had been a little disappointing, truth be told. He'd appeared to put up a promising fight at the beginning of the war, but perhaps he was losing his touch. Pity...Perhaps there'd come a day when England would want for adversaries after all. He allowed himself an indulgent smirk.

He stared down at the now-rumpled papers in front of him with mild exasperation, having spent the past few minutes playing absently with the edges. He hadn’t come to New England to dwell on the debatably constructive “peace talks” he’d be attending all too soon. He’d come…(Why had he come?)…to rest, he supposed. To shake off that stiffness he’d so diligently ignored. He had always felt more peaceful, here, as if there was something about this place (about the child who so embodied it) that blocked the fitful, impatient Siren’s call of the waves from his mind.

He hummed—a march—and shoved his chair back, stretching. It was difficult, after all, to rid his blood of the drums and cannon blasts, to forget the way his heart quickened at the smell of powder shredding the air. His feet carried him almost reflexively to the open window.

It was beautiful here. Everything—the clear expanse of the sky, the mountain-guarded horizon—reminded him of the child. He hadn’t visited the boy in more than two years—France’s pathetic attempts to retake Alfred’s brother hadn’t warranted England’s personal involvement, after all.

And, beyond the landscape’s (beyond the child’s) physical charms, there was the reassuring knowledge that it (the child) was unquestionably and incontrovertibly his, was settled in its proper place in a vast empire that might very soon be the world’s greatest…

(Empire. The word thrilled him. The elegant slice of the ‘i’ and the soft threat of the ‘p’—the assertion of a boot on a fluttering pulse.)

Perhaps “child” was no longer an entirely satisfactory term for Alfred. Not quite two centuries old and already as tall as England’s shoulder! England shook his head free of an uninvited smile (and an uninvited speculation, flight-of-fancy…) He crushed an ant idly with his thumb and flicked it into the garden below. Yes, his vivid, blue-eyed charge certainly had grown. England shivered and spun abruptly away from the window. A draft, perhaps…Autumn had already faded into winter, even though the sun here shone so brightly his eyes burned from it and retained a glowing impression when he closed them.

He glanced at the clock (imported, of course; he couldn’t approve of those colonial manufacturers who’d forgotten their place) and sighed. Seven past two. He’d expressly told the boy two o’clock. Heels clicking impatiently on the polished wood floor of his study, he wrenched open the door and thrust his head out into the hall.

“Alfred!” he called, a little sharply.

---

Histoical Context:
*This is, of course, set at the conclusion of the Seven Years’ (French and Indian) War. Peace talks began in November 1762.
*1759 was a “year of victories” for the British in the Seven Years’ War. Québec was captured on September 13, and British dominance in North America was more or less cemented. With the surrender of Montreal on September 8, 1760, the last the major campaign in North America came to an end, though the colonies continued to have intermittent difficulties with the Native Americans through 1764.
*After the Treaty of Paris (February 1763), Britain emerged as the world’s leading colonial empire, having gained exclusive control of Canada as well as other territories. However, much of Parliament considered the peace terms excessively lenient and expected a speedy renewal of hostilities with France and Spain. The war also doubled Britain’s national debt, and taxes on the American colonies were suggested as a source of revenue…

[unitedstates]

America was happy, so very, very happy! The war was over! (Well, it had been over for a while, but now it was over for England too, so it was really over! Except for that fight France had and England had had in that kid’s house that lived upstairs a few months ago, but that was over too. America didn’t know what to think of that kid. A long time ago, they used to be brothers, but then America forgot about him except for when England told him not to play with that French kid, because the French were “dirty bags of scum,” and now he was his brother again. I think. Something about the war and not finalized and blah blah blah- America had zoned out half-way through England’s last letter, only focusing when he read the last line, I’m coming over.)

That had made him even happier than the war being over! He never got to see his England, his [secret, because England never let him call him his] big brother, not even during the war when his troops were fighting alongside England’s. He said it was because the European front was more important, because France and Austria were bad, and he had to make sure Prussia didn’t mess everything up. (From what America had heard about him, he was super-strong and had a really amazing army, but was kind of impulsive. He didn’t think England liked him very much, but he wasn’t sure if England liked anybody very much.) But it didn’t matter, because the generals’ voices reminded him of England, even if they sometimes wouldn’t let his troops fight or lead or… well, anything really.

It was kind of a shame. America had had wars before, he wasn’t just some baby! He was even almost a teenager, which is almost an adult! His generals were good, like that George Washington guy. He had potential. America talked with him a few times, especially when he seemed really down, like what how he was after Fort Duquesne. But he was so smart, and such a good leader, America thought he might have a little, itty-bitty crush on him. (But only platonically! He didn’t want to get kicked out of church or anything!)

He was returning from town where he had been talking to some of the troops, actually! All he kept saying was, ‘There’s gonna be a peace treaty soon! A treaty!” but they all blew him off and told him to go home and get warm. Just because he looked like a little kid. He wanted to laugh at them, because they’d see when the peace treaty came. It was another thing he was really excited about- he and England had won back so much land from the stupid French and had finally made friends with some of the Indians, so that meant he’d be getting lots of land in the treaty! He had grown a couple of inches already, and he swore that if he touched his chin, he could feel the hair there, under the skin, waiting to grow. His people would be so happy- they wanted lots more land to grow things on, because they couldn’t really manufacture things (well, they could, but America always told himself they couldn’t when England was in town, because he was pretty sure England could read minds).

Looking at the shadow he cast on the ground, the beam on his face was startled off- it was a lot longer than he thought it would be. Normally this wasn’t a bad thing- it meant that he was that much closer to a new day and new experiences- but now, it meant he was late to meet England. Maybe. Probably.

England didn’t like it when he was late.

He started running, not sure if his suddenly really fast heart meant that he was afraid what England would do if he was too late (the older nation could be really, really mean sometimes) or if he was just excited to see him. Maybe it didn’t matter. He kicked up the dirt on the road underneath him as his feet slapped against the ground, running over pebbles and small rocks without notice. He waved cheerily to his family, his citizens as he passed them, and they waved back, thinking he was just the latest in the seemingly-never-ending stream of identical Jones boys. Reaching the front door of his house- (it had two floors and was made of wood and was the favorite of all the places he’s lived), he threw the front door open, wincing when it crashed loudly against the wall. Nevertheless, he flew in, closing the door gingerly behind him, and combed his fingers through his hair. He glanced into the mirror (nothing fancy, he made the frame and polished it himself) and smoothed it down a couple of times, wiping the dirt off his face and straightening his collar. Upon leaving earlier that morning, he decided to leave the waistcoat behind, and the shirt and coat he had chosen were of rougher material. However, they and his breeches were both clean, though a little dusty.

Deciding he was presentable enough, he heard a call from upstairs. “Alfred! Oh no, England was getting annoyed…

“I’m home!” he responded, bounding up the stairs. England’s head was stuck out into the hallway, and he forced himself to slow his pace to a walk as he approached the study. Once there, he pulled the door all the way open and grinned at England. He hesitated a moment- should he nod politely, as he had been taught in his manners lessons, or should he do as his excitement led him to?

Only a moment passed before America decided to run at England, wrapping his arms around his torso and pressing his face into the shoulder of his coat. He inhaled deeply- it smelled like England, of sea and rain and cologne and an underlying iron. America loved that smell. He pulled his face back and smiled at the older man. “I’m so happy you’re here! I’m so glad we won the war! I knew we would!” Reluctantly pulling away after another moment, he continued to chatter. “I’ve gotten taller, have you noticed? And oh, there was some really fresh looking fish at the market today, maybe we could make some! I can cook now. You look tired, are you okay?” The last question was voiced with concern- England, no, Arthur looked tired. Not just, ‘I just finished a war’ tired but ‘this is affecting me’ tired. America frowned at him and started to move deeper into the office, pulling at England’s coat sleeve.

[england]

England was not deceived. He heard the startled bang of the front door and the sound of running feet on the stairs before they stuttered into a walk. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the doorframe, turning his head toward the source of the noise with a disapproving frown. The boy came to a halt, smiling, his cheeks flushed slightly with running or with the chill. (November, England noted, with a connoisseur’s studied appreciation, had a careful eye for color.) Alfred seemed to be one of those people who existed in eternal suspension, balanced on the balls of his feet at the edge of some glorious precipice. England always wondered, with fascinated trepidation, what might happen when he finally jumped. (Whether he might let himself be caught, held…) England dropped his hand away from the doorframe; the planned sermon on punctuality suddenly struck him as far less pressing.

“Alfred, love,” he beamed instead, as his eyes raced over the smaller figure. “You look a complete vision.” A singular things to say to a young boy, certainly, but enough to send Alfred barreling into his arms. (Unless the child had intended to embrace him anyway; he had always been bewilderingly affectionate. Or simply bewildering.) England stiffened, then reached down and rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders, letting the infraction against social standards slip by as he listened to Alfred chatter.

“I’m so happy you’re here! I’m so glad we won the war! I knew we would!”

England laughed and ruffled Alfred’s hair. Of course they had won. There were confident whispers in Parliament that the Empire was now invincible, after all. He mustn’t let them go to his head, naturally—but it was certainly difficult not to indulge in a bit of celebratory smugness.

“I’ve gotten taller, have you noticed? And oh, there was some really fresh looking fish at the market today, maybe we could make some! I can cook now. You look tired; are you okay?”

By God, he was tired, but he forced the frown that had formed when Alfred pulled away into a fondly condescending smirk. "Don't be ridiculous, Alfred," he chided with an affectionate peck at the top of the child's head. “Of course I’m alright. But it’s quite a long way to travel just to see you.” The first bit was dismissive, the last, teasing; nowhere did his tone suggest anything but levity.

Perhaps it was the age-old rule of never displaying weakness in front of one's subordinates—or maybe it was simply that Alfred, (his) sweet, cheerful Alfred, shouldn't be made to worry about anything, least of all his sovereign nation's health. It had become impossible to puzzle out his own motivations where the boy was concerned lately. He freed his sleeve, laughing, and caught his charge in a tight embrace, pulling him back. Really, the boy darted about so quickly. England had become accustomed to leaving him alone, accustomed to far more pressing concerns than the well-being of a mere child, but in moments like these (when they were close) he found himself almost frightened to let Alfred move out of his reach.

At the present moment, drained though he was, he might have been able to lift someone three times Alfred's size without much thought. Nevertheless, he made a show of exertion as he swept the boy off his feet—just out of respect for his pride. The effortless, nonchalant manner in which he carried Alfred across the room gave him away, even so. (He was only willing to go so far to cater to a subordinate's pride, after all.)

"Mmm, you have grown," he agreed, smiling. Though not much heavier, the boy was certainly taller, his toes gently bumping a spot just below England's knees. He adjusted his grip on the boy’s waist, pulling him up a little higher. "Good lord, sweet; there's no rush. There’s nothing terribly interesting about adulthood."

He nudged his trunk out of the way with his foot and dropped into a chair, settling Alfred onto his lap. He frowned faintly at the luggage over the boy's shoulder; he hadn’t brought much, hadn’t yet moved it to his room, and hadn’t unpacked. It seemed an unpleasant reminder of how brief his stay was to be (he had neglected to mention it in his letter). He infallibly focused on trivialities in those letters. It was always "I expect you to meet me at four o'clock, sharp" or "I expect you've been keeping up with your studies".

One didn't discuss politics with a child, after all, and England had always been a poor corespondent beyond the flatly political.

He glanced back at Alfred with a smile, settling both arms around his waist. In this position, they were more or less at eye-level with each other. "Have you been behaving yourself?"

[unitedstates]

"Don't be ridiculous, Alfred. Of course I’m alright. But it’s quite a long way to travel just to see you.”

Now, America didn’t quite believe him. Maybe he would have when he was just a little kid (which he wasn’t! He had gone through a war with a whole different nation now! That had to be some rite of passage, right?) and didn’t know any better, but now… There had to be something else! America didn’t know what it was (maybe he was just tired because of the war, and all that silly European stuff he had to deal with), but if England said he was okay, he wouldn’t pry. So he simply scowled when Arthur kissed the top of his head, something for babies, really, and answered, “Then maybe you should let me visit you sometimes!”

The older nation had never even considered it before. Whenever America would bring it up, the idea was immediately shot down. ‘Europe’s no place for a child,’ he might say, or ‘You have to stay here and watch over our people, so they don’t get homesick.’ In any case, it seemed like a whole bunch of nonsense, but maybe it made sense, somehow. Pretty much all of his people (that was how he really though of them- as his, not as his and England’s) came to him to try and escape Europe. Some did it because the Catholic- oh sorry, the Church of England were persecusomething them, some because they wanted to make money, and some because they owed a lot of money.

Georgia wasn’t as bad anymore, of course.

Pursed lips, he pulled at England’s sleeve again, before he was swept up into a hug. He laughed delightedly, and continued laughing when it became obvious that it was now hard for England to pick him up. Wrapping his arms around England’s neck, America swung his legs freely, looking down every so often to make sure he wasn’t hitting his knees, though he actually did a couple of times. Sometimes he thought that maybe he wasn’t acting appropriately, that maybe he should act his age and not so childish… But it was hard when he actually did feel so happy whenever he saw England, and when it happened so rarely!

But his smile dropped when England crossed the room easily, not with difficulty as he anticipated. “Hey! You faked!” America pouted, pulling his arms tighter around England’s neck, trying to inhibit his progress. It shouldn’t be so easy for England to carry him now, that cheater.

"Mmm, you have grown.” America nodded, the grin bouncing back onto his face easily. England had been so busy on the European front fighting the big bad guys, especially France and Austria, that he hadn’t been around much for American battles. It was okay, he guessed. He understood why, but England really missed a lot- he shot up so much! Washington, before he quit, compared the little drummer boy that tagged along the Virginia provincial army to a weed.

“Isn’t it fantastic?”

"Good lord, sweet; there's no rush. There’s nothing terribly interesting about adulthood." America personally disagreed- it had to be so exciting to be an adult, especially an adult nation. It meant you got to have your own government and your own laws and get to make up the rules for your own house. As much as America adored and loved England, he sometimes wished he had more independence. He rebelled by smuggling, but he wished he could do it legally.

England plopped down into a chair, and America let his arms fall off of his neck, shifting his weight so that his legs dangled over one side of the chair, his back half against the other arm, half against England’s chest. He had a sinking feeling that soon, he’d really be too big to do this, and he had a feeling that he would really, really miss it. Even though the weather back in England was dreary (so he had heard from countless stories- ones he had read and listened to from England himself), Arthur himself was almost always warm. Especially now, when he just came inside from almost-freezing weather. He rubbed his hands together futilely and sunk into the arms around his waist, turning his head to make eye contact with England.

"Have you been behaving yourself?"

America remembered, once, he hadn’t answered the way he really should have. The result had been yelling, then being shunned for days on end. He tried his very hardest to win England back- he only got a few days with him every month, after all, and every moment England was angry at him was a moment lost, to no avail. He now approached the question carefully, very carefully. When he wasn’t annoyed or angry at England (for restricting his trade, for example), he made an effort to make the older nation happy. America loved England, and he gripped his arm unconsciously, pouting for a moment.

“Of course I’ve been behaving myself!” he replied, cheery again. “Remember I told you I learned to cook? That’s because I was helping make dinner for the army! I’ve been a drummer boy, which is really cool and fun, and I didn’t get squeamish when I saw people die at all. Just very sad. But I’ve been keeping the house clean- did you notice? And I’ve been minding my manners and speaking nicely to ladies and not bothering the soldiers and everything!”

Of course, not everything he said was strictly true- he only cleaned the house in a frenzy, knowing that England was due to arrive any day and would be very upset if it had been messy. But the majority of it was, and that was good enough for him. He bounced his legs with yet-unburned energy and caught England’s eye, smiling.

[england]

[[ …Right. This isn’t going to get any longer the more I stare at it. What it can get is posted. ]]

Just very sad? So it had already come to that, had it? The corners of England’s mouth twitched upward in a wry smile as he searched the boy’s face for some warning of advancing age. He wondered if the nightmares had come already. England was certainly old enough—by his own standards, if not by the world’s—but his throat still clenched and he still bit his tongue until it bled when he passed through Towton.

Of course, nothing the child had seen would be as bad as that, would it? Unless of course, one believed that seeing a man have the top of his skull blasted away had the same indelible effect no matter how many thousands of them ended up lying on their face in the mud when it was all finished. And Alfred’s dreams were so easily unsettled; a story, a cloudy night…Coldness would set in in time, of course. Resignation. Perhaps it had already started. Something in England prickled and flared at the idea of losing that slight, defenseless sleeping form…the childish, unguarded face. ( How easy it had always been to reach down and brush away those occasional flickers of anxiety… )

Really, he reflected, Bute’s ideas on colonial defense ought to be given a little more thought once the diplomats had come back from the continent and sheathed their still-rattling sabers. Nothing must be allowed to happen to the boy after all; that was unquestionable—but the funds themselves… England tightened his hold, suddenly fitful.

He reached up and skimmed his hand pensively over the boy’s fair hair. It was, perhaps, a little more tousled than he’d left it a—handful of years could do that. But of course, England was being ridiculous. A thousand disarrangements of Alfred’s hair had no doubt occurred and been put right over those years, but still, he could not help thinking of the time between their meetings as a single, suspended, slowly moving instant. ( Forgivable, surely, for one who had lived for over thirteen centuries, to misjudge the length of a few years. ) After all, a more or less identical image had flitted through his mind every day since he had last come to see about the war, and those extra inches, that lightly mussed hair seemed somewhat abrupt additions to the meticulously preserved figure in his memory. Perhaps it was simply bewildering to think that Alfred existed without him, grew independently of him—. It might have been almost unsettling if England were more prone to wild flights of anxiety…

The hand resting on top of Alfred’s head slipped thoughtlessly down his cheek and fell, with inexplicable discontent, on the colony’s knee. Yes, England ought to keep a closer eye on things here. His charge would no doubt require a guiding hand now that he was…no longer a child. England’s mouth worked itself into a thoughtful frown as his gaze settled on the curve of Alfred’s neck. Funny—in spite of every unanticipated change that had transpired, it had always curved so similarly into his dreams.

He was simply making a critical evaluation, of course; it was in his nature to examine things with a coolly objective eye…

The boy pressed closer, rubbing his hands together, his good-natured chatter smoothing the little catch in England’s breath.

“Cold, love?” He smiled and rubbed gently, methodically down the boy’s arm. “I’m pleased to hear that you’ve found occupations for your time.” It was cheering to hear that Alfred hadn’t been lonely—even if a sullen, selfish, quiet part of England had hoped for it. “You needn’t cook for yourself tonight, but perhaps you might show me tomorrow…”

England trailed off and resumed his evaluation thoughtlessly, eyes flicking downward over the boy’s torso. He pursed his lips at Alfred’s lack of a waistcoat. How had he not noticed?“I trust you will take care to dress properly in the future.” He could not help sounding a little sharp; he mustn’t permit the entire county to see his charge in a state of near-undress, after all. His fingertips nudged the collar of Alfred’s coat, as if to push it away from his shoulder. He couldn’t really criticize, he reflected, recalling his own preference for going bareheaded. Wigs were one of the more ridiculous fashions he had been forced to endure at court, and his sole consolation was that he would still be young when the youth stopped wearing them. The frost encasing his admonition thawed a few degrees. “Especially now that you’re older...I can certainly afford to clothe you, Alfred. I take an interest in how you present yourself, as it reflects on me.”

He smoothed the coat back into place, lifted the boy’s chin, and gazed seriously at him. Perhaps it was merely a minor infraction--but an infraction was an infraction, nevertheless.