Blitzkreig

     "We had begun to love life, and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces." -- All Quiet on the Western Front


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     September, 1940

     America wasn't terribly surprised when he heard what the Blitz did to England. Even as he stared down at the mangled body on the hospital cot, he couldn't find it in himself to feel shocked, or even upset.
     
     "Looks like you've got yourself into one hell of a fight, baby," he murmured, trying to memorize the exposed alleys in England's ripped abdomen. The older nation merely stared up at America, red blood coating his hands like delicate gloves, and smiled blandly.
     
     "It's a war," he said, disinterested. "This is not entirely uncommon."
     
     "True, but I won't ever let my guts hang out," America retorted, shooting England a winning smile. He smiled back, his jaded gaze flickering down to the gaping wound his stomach.
   
     "Your time will come," he said quietly. "Just wait, America. One day you'll be the one ripped open."

     "I don't doubt it," came the blithe reply. England chuckled dryly.

     A few quiet minutes passed, which England spent picking at the tubes in his arms and America spent slapping his hands away.

     
     "You're going to die, y'know," America said a few moments later, as he examined a photo on the wall.

     "I know," England replied. He sounded bored, although his breathing had become labored. "I have died before, and I will die in the future, and I will die today. I don't mind. I'm ready."

     America pouted. "You make yourself sound all noble, going off to die for what you believe in and shit." The young nation pushed a hand through his hair. "How many times did I die during the Revolution? 1812? World War One? I've been bayonetted, shot, killed in crashes--"

     "--and I've been stabbed, poisoned, behaded," England cut in, his voice patient, like he was explaining something to a small child. "You are young, America, so beautifully and vitally young. You have died, but you have never been dead."

     The blonde frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Whatever," he muttered, and the room lapsed into silence once again.


     "So why are your guts still hanging out? Couldn't they have sewed you up, or something?" America eyed the torn, mangled skin on England's stomach, seeing muscle and bone and other things he really didn't want to think about.

     "Oh, they could have." England gently stroked over the bombed city, pink muscles twitching under the touch and making his dried fingertips slippery. "I told them not to."

     America snorted. "I'm never going to understand you, old man." England just laughed, wiping his bloody fingertips off on an equally stained bandage, and then he shrugged.

     "I want to die with my people."

     "Goddamn." America shook his head, still standing, facing the window.

     "You and I are from different centuries, different millenium," he explained blithely. Wincing, he pushed his fingers deeper into the hole in his stomach, watching in mild fascination as the digits disappeared.

     "Hey, I don't mind dying for my people. But if I can be saved, I wanna be saved, you know?"

     "Even at the cost of another's life?"

     "Of course." America fixed England with an odd look. "And you? You're the British Empire. You built your thrones on corpses, and bones, and greed, and, well....being a dick in general."

     "I am dying," England grumbled, looking like himself for a split second as his eyebrows drew together in a scowl. However, the expression was gone as soon as it had come. With a quick twist of his embedded fingers, he sucked in a deep, sharp breath before removing them. They dripped thick red liquid onto the blankets. England just watched, and eventually, America had to snatch his wrist away and wipe it off with a tissue. "Dying tends to put things in perspective--"

     "Bullshit," America cut in breezily.

     "Fine." England's voice was flat. "What do you want me to say? How do you want me to explain my death?"

     "Why?" America's voice was soft, his blue eyes melting behind his glasses. England closed his eyes.

     "To show you," he said softly. "When I found you, America, you were so very young. Innocent. Untainted." A hoarse, bland laugh. "You know how we are, us Europeans. Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. I was raised by being tossed into war after war, I grew up during those wars, I learned to kill and defend before I learned how to laugh or smile. When I met you, you were free from all that death. Poor little America, so pure that he had to ask me what my gun was." England shook his head. "That concept--that everyone could just get along--was so foreign to me. Love. Hope. I poured it all into you because I hated who I had become, who all of Europe had become. Mindless, imperialistic monsters who thirsted for blood and gold and who would stop at nothing to get it."

     England eyed the gaping wound in his stomach, and the more America stared at it, unblinking, the more it blurred and blurred and blurred until he could almost see the outline of the burning buildings.

     "Show me what?" America said after a moment. "That Europeans like to pick fights with each other? I know that already, England, you don't have to go and die over it--"

     "I know you know." England once again tugged at the tubes in his arms, and America, once again, stopped him. "I'm trying to show you what will happen if...if you get involved in this war."

     England's voice hitched, and America guessed he had maybe a half-hour, maybe a little less.

     "You are the land of the free, the home of the brave," the older nation continued. "You are beautiful, America, and you are brave and you are strong, but you do not belong in Europe's wars. Not yet. You are the fruition of all my dreams, and I refuse to let you be destroyed by us."

     "So this is because of selfishness," America sighed, and then he smiled. "I knew it, babe."

     England tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. "You're my favorite possession, America. Of course I don't want you to be broken."

     "Favorite, huh?" America smiled. "That's sweet."


     The minutes continued to tick by, and America counted them not by minutes, but the gradients by which England's eyes darkened.

     An eternity later, America found himself sitting on the side of England's bed, holding his hand and murmuring sweet things to him.

     "You don't have to...do this, you know," England had breathed out, and America smiled softly, sadly. He had kissed England's knuckles.

     "I don't. But I want you to die nicely."

     They hadn't spoken since then.

     England's eyes were almost flat, like dull, mossy stones. America sucked in a breath when England exhaled and didn't breathe for several long seconds. Finally, the older nation spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

     "Kiss me, America."

     The younger nation did as he was told, leaning forward and pressing his lips to England's. The kiss was soft and warm, and America's grip on England's hand tightened.

     "Promise me," The dying nation said once they had broken apart, "that you won't get involved in this war and destroy all that I tried to make in you."

     America smiled softly. "I promise."

     America lied.

     England knew it, but those were the words he needed to hear. So he just smiled, squeezed America's hand, closed his eyes, and died.

     Letting out a shaky, held breath, America stood and let his hand fall from England's slack grip. He brushed some of England's sandy blonde hair out of his eyes and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

     "I'm sorry, baby," he murmured, and then he grabbed his jacket and left, shutting the door softly and leaving the dead body of England behind.

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     When England opened his eyes for the next time, it was sometime in 1942. America greeted him with a smile and a holster on his hip. England just shook his head and allowed a shaking America into his arms.

     "I'm sorry, America," he murmured into the fabric of the younger nation's jacket. "I'm so sorry."