Hetalia Fanfiction: After All, It Was a Great, Big World by Jedishampoo

Notes: For the kink meme, the prompt “UK/US, sex in a desert.” Here’s the Kink Meme link (yeah, like nobody knew it was me). It's 19,900 words of silliness and smut, in three parts, but I loved writing it. Thanks to the OP and to my beta, sharpeslass!

After All, It Was a Great, Big World:

Poke. Poke.

England was asleep. At least, he’d used to have been. Now, he was awake. Sort of.

His mouth was dry and full of mostly-dry pillow. His eyelids hurt and didn’t want to open, so he sucked pillow and tried to wake up very, very slowly.

This didn’t taste like his pillow; it tasted like artificial April-fresh scent. Therefore, he was in a hotel room. But where? England let more awake-ness creep in so he could attempt to divine his surroundings. In addition to his aching eyelids, his brain wasn’t functioning properly. Therefore he’d obviously had a tipple or two the evening prior. Amsterdam, maybe?

Poke. Poke.

Someone was poking him.

“Buggeroffyou,” he told his scenty hotel-pillow.

“Good morning! The shower’s yours and I’ve already got a car, whenever you’re ready to go. Up, up!”

America. Right. He’d come to see-- He was in-- America, perhaps not as literally as he’d planned, but-- wait. He rolled over but refused to open his eyes to meet the perky blue gaze he could sense directed at him.

“Car. Where are we?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada, of course. U S of A. Don’t tell me you forgot that. Or our little road-trip?”

“Of course not, dolt,” England lied, and tried to remember. He’d flown in yesterday afternoon. They had toured downtown Las Vegas last night. He’d told America that the light-show and neon were horribly tacky, and somehow America had gotten him to agree to a drive through the desert to see more natural wonders. To console himself he’d drunk something… Something very fruity in a tall, plastic container, with a very long straw. He’d drunk several of the somethings, yes. He’d disparaged them, too, as paltry things, along with the neon and the music.

“Those things didn’t taste like they had any fucking alcohol in them,” he moaned.

“I know! I felt like crap this morning,” America chirped.

England cracked open an eyelid. Even blurred by eyelid goo and haloed in sunlight, America looked glowy and spry. Damp and sexy. Wanker. They hadn’t-- or had they? England raised his head a very few centimeters and looked down at himself. He was fully clothed. With movement, wakeful memory crept back into his brain. The tacky. The natural-wonders coercion. A little gambling, the fruity. A bet, yes.

“I seem to remember that you owe me something,” he croaked, remembering too late for decency what it was.

“Oh, ha ha! A blowjob,” America said, as blithely as you please. “After the sightseeing. C’mon, get up! Hup, hup!”

“Bastard,” England said, cheeks heating. His brain was sluggish but still managed to conjure up an image of America, damp, glowy America, performing fellatio on him. He arose and stumbled to the shower.

“Tea,” he demanded, loudly, through the door.

There was a bottle of water on the bathroom counter. It wasn’t tea but it was wet; England cracked it open and gulped half of it in one go, and immediately felt a little better. The shower was hot and by the time he was clean, he felt almost normal.

As he dried himself off, he noticed that someone, most likely America, had come into the bathroom and put a bottle of sunscreen atop his face-towel. Bollocks. A drive in the sun, the deathly dry desert of… the west. Nevada, right. He swiped a healthy film of sunscreen over his face and forearms.

America was absent when he exited the bathroom to dress. Their hotel room was small but rather spectacular, tastefully furnished and somewhere high up with one of those giant windows that darkened at the touch of a switch. They were somewhere called Encore, very posh and crowded, not nearly as tacky as downtown Las Vegas but still showy in a way that exemplified the very best or worst of America, depending upon how one looked at it.

Secretly, beneath his protective layer of scorn, England was unable to deny the allure of it all. The wondrous sense of height and space out the screened window, the teabags and hot water laid out on the table next to it, the possibilities inherent in their being here, together.

Still, he was glad of the few minutes alone. As irresistible as he’d always, shamefully, found America, it took time to change one’s habits and thought-processes and defenses. Notwithstanding any new developments in their personal relationship, the two of them hadn’t yet managed to dispel the awkward air that surrounded them whenever they met after any time apart. Even before they’d met yesterday, England had endured the long flight with a churning stomach, worked into a state of high tension over the days since he’d say yes, he’d come.

The sight of America waiting for him outside customs, grinning and bouncing on his feet like a village idiot, had sent his twisting stomach up to strangle his heart and he’d found little to say that wasn’t rather nasty, until even America’s excited laughter and inanities had gained a desperate edge he probably hadn’t even been aware of. Sometimes, the ability to read the atmosphere was a skill England would joyfully forego, thank you very much.

The fruity things had helped. At some point he’d loosened up enough to say yes, anything was better than all this flash and noise, and to win a bet he couldn’t remember the gist of, only the outcome. He vaguely remembered his own whispered threats of ravishment in a cab and the brief taste of a hot, sloppy mouth and then… waking up.

The door made an electronic clicking noise and America returned, grinning, and England looked at his partially-open shirt and his mouth, and immediately thought about licking those white, straight teeth--

“Wow, you look lots better!” America said. He was holding one of those giant, sugary, frothy coffee-things.

You look astonishing, England thought, but of course couldn’t say, not in the light of day and with all that heavy, awkward air crushing his lungs. He couldn’t believe he’d even managed to mention that bet, this morning.

“The tea is tepid,” he said.

“Ha ha, that’s too bad! We’ll get you another at Starbuck’s,” America said, still smiling.

“Corporate nonsense,” England said as he stood.

“But good coffee.” America’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his spectacles, though his smile remained intact.

“Where’s my wallet?” England said, patting his trousers pockets.

The wallet was found, along with a pair of sunglasses. But the lift car was crowded and the lobby was horribly crowded and the coffee-shop line was long, and the barista flirted with America. At least the tea was hot.

The young man at the valet kiosk also ogled America and ran off, returning a few minutes later driving a-- a-- a bubble. It was a hybrid car, one of those little Hondas that ran on electric and solar and used little petrol.

The young sprout said something like Here you are, Mr. First as he handed over the keys with a too-excited grin, and England wondered, first in what? The valet positively beamed at whatever gratuity America slipped him.

“Why did I think you’d have gotten a convertible-- a Mustang or Corvette or the like?” England asked with some regret as he climbed through the passenger-side door and slid the seat back a few inches.

“Ah! I’m being green. This baby has low emissions and great gas mileage. And it has a hatchback. It’s practical, right?”

“And Japanese,” England said.

“It’s a global economy,” America told him with a very bland expression.

England was silent as America negotiated the crazy traffic out of the hotel’s massive grounds, then out along Las Vegas Boulevard. He’d have rather ridden in something showy and sporty, and privately thought America had chosen the wrong time to be responsible. But once up on the raised motorway, England was distracted by the vistas he’d spotted earlier from the hotel-room window, the mountains brown against the blue, cloudless sky. America turned off the air-conditioning and opened the windows.

“It’s great weather for April,” he said.

“It’s dry,” England said. When America turned away, possibly to frown, England added, “very temperate, however. Sunny.”

“Drink this.” America handed him a bottle of water plucked seemingly from nowhere. England accepted it gratefully and stared out the window rather than at America, at his tanned arms poking out of his rolled-up sleeves and his bright hair whiffling in the wind. America, everywhere he looked.

It was odd how the city didn’t peter out but simply disappeared: one moment there were clusters of houses and petrol-stations and shops, and the next, long stretches of nothing but road and dirt. It looked much like it had when England had visited the Mojave Desert in the 1950s, when his military had viewed some of America’s nuclear tests. The landscape was not dead, however. England could spot the scattered green of hard-scrabble desert bushes in the never-ending, sloping stretches of brown and red rock. It was massive and majestic.

“It’s kind of pretty, don’tcha think?” America said. “I guess they had a really rainy winter, so there’s actually lots of green, ha ha.”

Again, America behaved true to form. With the crowds one would not think there was a recession going on, and apparently a few stunted, green shrubs could convince Americans that there was no drought.

Even such foolishness had undeniable charm, when captured in the form of America, as long and breezy as these astonishing valleys, an expanse that England wanted to touch and map with his fingers, exploring like hadn’t since New Year’s--

“It is… lovely, in a very stark way,” England said. He swallowed. “So where are we going again?”

“Well, that’s the awesome part. Not only do you get to see the Amargosa Valley, but you get to see something cool that not very many British people have seen!”

England’s alarm began to nudge aside his fantasies of tracking America’s dry valleys. “Where are we going?” he repeated.

“Of course, you can’t tell anyone,” America added.

“Where are we going?” England asked once more, most emphatically.

“You’ll never believe-- oh, fine, don’t look at me like that. Area 51! The Nevada Test Site base. Isn’t that cool?”

“Area 51.” Something tickled at England’s memory, but surely that couldn’t be-- “Not the place with the fucking aliens?”

America laid his index finger over his lips. “It’s just an Air-Force testing center, remember,” he said with a wink.

“What?” England thought of America’s ghastly friend Tony, that little grey bastard with the horrible mind-games who was safely tucked away back in New York or Washington-- somewhere far, far away, anyway. “I thought that was Mexico. Or New Mexico?”

America laughed. “No, that’s just the cra-- well, you’ll get to see some cool planes, maybe. That you can’t tell anyone about. Not even regular military can get in there.”

“Did you arrange this ahead of time?”

“Nah,” America said, waving his hand as if the very idea were a joke. “I don’t have to, ha ha!”

England stared at him and thought for a few moments. A high-security base. This would be a very unofficial visit and he certainly hadn’t completed any of the paperwork that American Homeland Security or the paranoiac American military would have wanted him to complete. Neither had he cleared it with his boss or the RAF. He--they-- could get into some very unofficial trouble. In addition, he might have to consort with that-bastard-Tony’s compatriots.

On the other hand, he might get to see some very high-tech and top-secret planes. America’s planes had evolved into machines that were quite sleek and cool and stealthy. And later, he would get oral sex. From America.

“I look forward to seeing it,” England said. Sometimes being a pervert made decision-making easy.

“I’m really glad to hear that,” America said with a smile so huge and genuine that it made England’s stomach tie itself into a midshipman’s hitch. His vulnerability to the moods of a young, brash twat like America was ever a trial to him, though he should have been well used to it.

America was still staring at him. At least, it seemed so, even through his darkened spectacles. England’s stomach rearranged itself down low, low in his belly.

“Watch the road, dolt,” he said in a voice made rather scratchy with lust.

He would have thought his euphoria by association might have abated when America turned up the radio and started singing loudly and somewhat off-key into the wind-- she was-- an American girrrrllll!-- but it didn’t. He found it to be decent driving music.

“Ohhh yeah! All right!” America was still singing. England looked out the window to hide a rather uncharacteristic and fond grin. He watched the seemingly eternal brown, the spots of green, the occasional glint of white where a motor home hunched in the parched landscape. Huge and all-encompassing. America as a colony clinging to the eastern coast had been so much more manageable than this vast sky, which felt as if it could swallow him whole.

The song ended and an irksome advertiser’s voice took over the airwaves. America turned down the radio. Not one to remain silent, he hummed remnants of the song for a minute or two and then spoke.

“You know, I was so sure that girl was going to get her boyfriend’s name tattooed on her tummy.”

England wondered if he was supposed to know what America was talking about. Somehow, he thought he should. Something-- the vaguest of memories-- danced through his brain synapses.

“Oh?” he said, when he couldn’t catch the trace memory.

“Totally. But you were right.”

“Ah, that. Indeed,” England said. He glanced over at America and nodded, trying to look smug.

America was smiling back at him, but his smile was incredibly bland, like he was so cool that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Such a look on America’s open, engaging face was always rather eerie. “You guessed the right one! It’s like you were psychic, or something.”

“Ah,” England said, and looked away. America knew he’d forgotten, the sly bastard. England thought harder, mentally chasing down the memory.

A girl. Blond and… pink? Hair? Cute. Metal in her face. Her lips? She’d been laughing at America and clutching an equally pierced bloke whose beard hung down past his belt. She’d said… she’d liked England’s accent. There’d been nothing particularly remarkable about that; American women tended to go for such things.

America snorted. “You totally forgot, didn’t you? Ha ha.” America’s ha ha sounded quite a bit sharper than usual. “You don’t remember.”

“Nonsense,” England lied. He thought some more. It was… their bet, that America was referring to. They hadn’t gambled money, because that was for regular humans. So in the spirit of drunkenness they’d wagered… sex. He thought harder. He was in serious trouble. There was a chance he could lose his reward--

“What was it, then?”

England closed his eyes. A shop. The fruity things. Color, light, and… “Damned flowery thing with a cross that was a dagger, something ridiculous like that,” he said, with a definite smug look.

America’s grin became a little less bland and more real. “Hey, you’re right! Sort of.”

“’Course I am,” England said, crossing his arms over his middle as if to say so there. “Told her you should never get a tattoo of your lover’s name. It’s the surest way to ruin your love-life. He was daft, anyway.”

“I thought they were sweet,” America said. “Really sweet on each other.”

“She wanted the tattoo so low on her crotch, she’d have been branded. Like livestock.”

“Hmm,” America said, possibly thinking of cattle. Or girls’ nether bits. Animal husbandry. Jesus, England was randy. He wished he could remember more of what had happened after the tattoo shop. In their room. Hot breath and tongue and oh, yes and… nothing. “And here I’d thought you’d forgotten completely.”

England snorted. “I was drinking to excess for centuries before you popped into existence,” he said.

“Hmm,” America said again.

For a while they were quiet, comfortable and uncomfortable by turns, like an eternal metaphor for their relationship. America tapped the steering wheel and hummed and England drank his water and watched the gradual shifts in the landscape. They made the occasional comment about the land formations. America turned the radio up, then down, then up, then finally down when they lost the signals.

The little car went very fast once it got up to speed, and out here there were few traffic controls. At one point America said, oh, almost there! and England spotted a tiny green sign-- Mercury, two miles. The turnoff was barely marked or visible, two small, grey lanes in the grey and brown. A quarter-kilometer or so in they pulled up to a tiny gate with two camouflage-clad guards and a sign reading, “WARNING: Restricted Area.”

America rolled up to the gate and pushed his spectacles to the top of his head, making his hair stick up even more. The approaching guard was middle-aged and stern.

“This area is off-limits to civilians,” he said. England dug in his trousers-pocket for his wallet.

“We’re not civilians, ha ha,” America said with a massive smile, and handed over his identification folio. The guard opened it, took a look, then snapped it shut and handed it back.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Firth. You do not have access. Please leave.”

Firth, not First, England thought.

“What? I--” America, open-mouthed, looked at first dumbfounded and then chagrined. “Wait, that’s the wrong-- Uh. Crap.”

England realized that America had nearly said he’d given the wrong ID, definitely an official no-no. The guard moved his hand down to cradle his radio, or perhaps his firearm, and the other guard watched them closely.

“Let me see your wallet, Arthur,” America said with a strained smile.

“What did you do now, you prat?” England whispered, but handed it over. America passed it to the guard, who examined it a little longer than he had America’s, but eventually shook his head and handed it back.

“You’re not an American citizen. No access, sir.”

“I was here before you,” England blurted. “And I probably have higher clearance--”

“You’ll have to leave.”

“Don’t you have better ID, Mr. Firth?” England said to America.

“I-- But this isn’t even the restricted--” America began.

“A civilian and a British citizen have no business here.”

“Special relationship, my arse,” England muttered.

“Thank you, sir! Sorry for the trouble,” America said in a bright, tight voice, then backed up the car and began turning it around. His eerie smile had returned in force.

“Whose identification are you carrying, Mr. Firth?” England wanted to know.

America ignored him. England spotted the ID folio in America’s lap, and he nabbed it and opened it.

“Colin Firth? You stole identification from Colin Firth?”

“It’s not sto-len,” America said in a sing-song voice. He flipped his spectacles down to hide his eyes.

“I knew this was going to be trouble,” England said. “Of all the aliases you could have chosen, you picked one that was well-known?”

“I wanted to be Brad Pitt, but they’d have known that was an alias. So I picked a name nobody would know, because my boss doesn’t want us spending needlessly, and then I left my real ID behind accidentally, probably at ho--”

“Nobody would know?” England interrupted. “He was nominated for an award from your acting academy, if you remember--”

“I only knew who he was because you made me watch that miniseries with all the sisters. I cried, remember?”

“Pride and Prejudice, twat. Twat, twat, twat,” England said. “Troublesome tw--”

“Don’t worry! I know another way in,” America said, turning his rictus-grin on England. He gripped the steering wheel with intent and looked right frightening. “It’s longer, but it’s way cooler--”

“No, it’s troublesome. Twat.”

“We’re going,” America said, and looked so horrifying around his dark lenses that England didn’t want to argue about it. America turned up the radio until the car was filled with half-music, half-static. He drove. England looked out the window and mouthed twat occasionally.

The radio signal returned, and America turned up the volume even higher and began to sing once more. It was David Bowie.

“Put on your red shoes and dance the blues!” America shouted.

“Your accent is for shit,” England told him, and stared out the window. He was never going to get his oral sex, or anything else, and perhaps he didn’t want it from such a silly twat, anyway, so there. Except he did.

America ignored him. His false accent grew even more outrageous. “Would break mah hahrt in tow!!”

“Now you’re just yanking my chain,” England sniffed.

***

America drove. He drove fast, and he liked it. He’d stopped for water and snacks and gas and a map, and then he’d driven some more. England was sulking with his face pressed against the window. Like he should be the one sulking, the butthead. He was the one who’d fallen asleep in the middle of--

America sighed. He realized too late that he’d also let Pookie slow down, because England noticed something and looked over at him with his most annoying ‘oh-so-proper’ expression.

“Come to your senses, yet?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I feel pretty darned sensible right now,” America said. Nyah, nyah, nyah, put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister. Sometimes being around England made him feel like a kid. Mostly when England was being a jerk, like he was now.

“Right,” England said, and went back to staring out the window.

Other than England being a jerk a lot of the time, things were actually pretty cool. England could be all bluster and bullshit on the outside, but he was solid smoosh in the inside. And sometimes England still surprised him. Like with the whole being a sex-maniac thing. That was pretty awesome. When he actually got down to business, that was.

They should never have but they just worked, somehow-- in lots of ways. They’d had to learn to deal; England had always been there, almost from the beginning. America wasn’t sure what he’d do if that was ever not the case. He didn’t like to think about it. He didn’t want to feel melancholy, because he’d really been looking forward to this time together that was not really business, and it was too short to not spend it being happy.

He felt less ticked-off at that last thought. The desert was gorgeous, the sky was blue and the driving was good, and having his long-awaited company was good.

He drove one-handed down a road that seemed to narrow to nothing at the end of the Earth, perfectly straight and grey-black the whole way. He marveled again at his people, who’d carved modern life out of the most forbidding territory.

At some point he saw the sign for his turn northwest, and he checked the gas gauge. He wondered if he should have stopped in Alamo, but then decided that there was gas in Rachel, if they needed it. And Pookie didn’t use very much gas at all, good girl. She may have been a little slow to get going, but she was very environmentally conscious.

England sat up straight when America slowed to make the turn onto Highway 375. He’d seen the sign, oh, shit, even though it was covered in stickers like graffiti. America’s people were such lively jokers, the little twerps.

“The ‘Extraterrestrial Highway?’” England bitched. “Don’t tell me they have fucking settlements, now.”

“Ha ha. It’s a joke,” America said. England just stared at him. “Because of Area 51? Nevada knows it’s popular with UFOlogists? Even though it’s just an airfield?”

England sighed. “Only in America.”

“Because we have a great sense of humor,” America told him, fighting to hold his smile. Jerk jerk jerk--

England snorted and America’s opinion of him changed from bad to worse. England’s company was not good and somebody like France would have been a lot more fun. Why hadn’t he asked France to come out to visit? Of course, France would have been groping him while he tried to drive and why wasn’t England trying to grope him? Because he was busy being a big, fat grump, that’s why.

Highway 375 climbed over a mountain pass and through land even more dry and desolate than they’d seen on the last highway. There were no towns for miles and miles-- except a few ghost-towns, eek-- just the tiny strip of blacktop, and a yellow-dotted line into forever.

This was mostly government land; homesteaders could still have it for next to nothing, but only if they could find water, and what homesteader these days could afford to drill through rock just to get enough water for his trailer? America thought of the pioneers and cowboys and miners of a century and a half ago, the hardy people who’d come and seen the beauty and possibilities in this stark, amazing land. They’d suffered through loneliness and a few scorching, dry summers and most had eventually died or drifted off, like tumbleweeds blown through and never stopping for long.

England coughed and America thought his cough sounded kind of parched. Even in April, the dry air and eighty-degree heat and sunshine could be deadly, especially to an old grump from a damp, foggy island. America reached in the back and snagged another bottle of water from the mini-cooler. He thrust it, dripping, at England.

“Keep drinking water,” he said.

“No, thank you,” England told him. “I’m only a little dry.”

“If you get thirr-sty, it’s all-ready too laaate,” he said in a high voice, as if talking to a toddler. “Dehydration is dangerous.”

England took the water with a scowl but didn’t open it. “I already need to make a necessary break. Where is the next town?”

“Um,” America said, and looked at the odometer. “A long way.”

“Bollocks.”

“Uh. I could stop here. You could hug a yucca!” America told him.

England pushed his sunglasses atop his head and glared.

America laughed. “You know, like the saying, ‘hug a tree?’ Except there aren’t any trees, so it would have to be a yucca? One of those?” He pointed out the window at one of the yucca, a spiky bush that looked like it had palm-leaves growing out of dried corn-husks.

“I can wait.”

“Suit yourself,” America said. He sighed. “You should enjoy this. It’s an adventure.”

“Every moment with you is an adventure of some sort, Mr. Firth,” England said.

America was pretty sure England had meant that comment as an insult, but he thought it was kind of sweet, anyway. He felt a warm, tight little sun radiating from under his ribcage, warmth that had nothing to do with the heat outside.

He couldn’t hold the warmth in: he smiled at England and England saw him and tried to give him a stern glare, but America caught the crinkle at the corners of his green eyes before he flipped his sunglasses down to cover them. The warmth flowed out to America’s fingers and toes, and felt so giddy he wanted to laugh. Or have sex right that minute. But only if England was nice to him, or at least pretended to be nice to him, or if he’d at least pretend he wanted to. He’d sure picked a crappy time to pass out last night, just when things had been getting kinda hot.

Though now, and out here, wasn’t a great time or place to do it, anyway. Planes would have to do. Really goddamned amazing and expensive planes. Planes were good. And food. He’d already eaten all the best snacks, and it was past time for lunch.

But something was wrong, he saw, when they finally reached the little cluster of tin huts that was Rachel, Nevada.

“Oh, shit,” America said as he slowed. “The Quik-Pik is closed!”

“What?” England said, leaning forward to look. “The what?”

“There used to be a nice, little mini-mart and gas station here,” America said before he thought about the wisdom of admitting that he’d been expecting gasoline.

“We need petrol, and they don’t have any? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Well…” America began. A tumbleweed bounced lazily through the gas-station parking lot, mocking him and the closed-off pumps. He looked at the gauges. They still had gas, and “Pookie doesn’t need much gas, do you, girl? We’ll be okay.”

“Pookie.” England had that look on his face again. The annoying look.

“Uh.” America realized too late that he’d said that last part aloud. He was beginning to want to smack himself. What a hellacious day! There had better be some fucking awesome planes at the test site. Once they’d made it inside and had his ‘real’ identity cleared, that was. He breathed deeply. “It’s what I named our car.”

“Poo-- Pookie.” England snickered as he said it.

“Lunch! Let’s get lunch. I’m starved. Look-- there's a Nevada landmark, a real tourist attraction: The Ale-E-Inn!”

“You mean to tell--”

“No real aliens! Part of the joke. Ha ha?” America smiled, big.

England sighed. “I’m a little peckish, I suppose.”

“Great!” America pulled into the restaurant’s gravel lot. The Ale-E-Inn was basically a double-wide trailer, all scrunched inside, but air-conditioned. They had a restroom break and then burgers and fries, both of them. England even waved off the offer of beer and stuck to cold water.

The only other customers turned out to be a British couple, and they latched onto England once they’d heard his accent. It was really cute, seeing England when he was being chatty and charming to his own people. But eventually they had to get going. America paid their check and bought a stack of Ale-E-Inn tee-shirts.

“I’m giving one to every member of the G-20. They’re awesome, right?” he told England.

England stared at him, silently, and America’s fingernails tingled at the intensity of that stare.

“We’d better get going,” America said to break the acute moment. He tossed the bags of tee-shirts into the hatchback and put his hands on his hips. “Isn’t Pookie a handy little car?”

England, the jerk, gave a low chuckle that spoke straight to America’s dick, and then he stunned America further by grabbing his hand and pulling him a few feet into the shade clinging to the side of the trailer. He pushed America up against it.

“Did I miss my opportunity?” England whispered in a low voice to the skin on America’s face, that sensitive little strip between his ear and his cheek.

“Maybe,” America breathed. He put his hands on England’s hips and held on, anyway.

“Mmm,” England said, and finally kissed him, just sliding his soft lips over America’s. They both sort of sighed and sagged into each other.

“I thought maybe you didn’t--” America whispered after a few moments.

“Idiot. I always--” England told him, crawling his fingers through the hair over America’s ears.

They’d just settled their tongues in each others’ mouths when America heard the sound of tires crunching through gravel. A car was pulling into the lot. England pulled away and stepped back a few paces.

“How much farther is it?” he asked, staring at America’s lips.

“Um. Just up and over the mountain pass,” America said, trying not to look at the sheen on England’s neck where his top shirt-button was undone.

“Onward, then,” England said. He waved at Pookie’s passenger-side door. With some regret, America punched the clicker-button to unlock the doors. Planes. Planes were good. Totally fucking awesome, amazing, and expensive planes.

America was in a kind of horny daze and only noticed a little too late that the dirt road up the mountain was a rough drive for their Pookie. It wasn’t much more than a car-wide trail. The road also went up a lot more steeply than he remembered. It had been a very long time since he’d been out this way.

He hit a nasty bump and the car bounced and her shocks groaned a little. England was using one hand to cling to the windowsill, and with the other he’d grabbed America’s knee.

At being groped at last, America stopped worrying about the road completely and went off into his happy-place.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” England asked, squeezing America’s knee even harder when they hit another rut.

“Absolutely. We’re just fine, yep,” he murmured, patting the steering wheel.

An especially steep grade made Pookie rev scarily and her wheels spin in the dust, breaking America out of his haze long enough to wish he’d gotten a four-wheel drive. He should have thought this entire side-trip out a little better, but he’d been pissed off, both at his own mistakes and at other peoples’ stubbornness at keeping him from doing what he wanted. He’d just stormed off. Maybe England, along with lots of other people, was right when he said that America was frighteningly impetuous at times.

But then England’s fingers slid up the insides of America’s thin cargo khakis, and America glanced over to see England staring straight ahead with a sly-looking smile. America stretched and rubbed his back into the bucket-seat pleather and shivered when England’s fingers brushed across his pants-zipper, then poked, hard--

“Ow--”

“Hold! Hold! Look sharp!” England was yelling. America swerved just in time to avoid a basketball-sized rock in the road, barely visible against the same-colored desert dirt. And it got worse: the road was strewn with rocks, some of them massive. America gunned Pookie up a small incline and then had to stop, because the road that kept going up the mountain was completely blocked by a wall of tumbled, brown and red boulders.

“That’s not supposed to be there,” America said as he killed the engine. England just looked at him and then they both opened their doors.

They stood on a suspiciously-man-made looking flat-cut like a little shelf in the road up the mountain. In front of them, the flat-cut ended at a sheer, sandstone cliff marked by a man-sized, half-crumbled hole into the mountain like an abandoned mine-shaft. To one side the desert sloped down steeply into the wide bowl of the valley they’d just driven through. And the road going forward ran directly under the pile of boulders, reminding America of a road he’d seen in Hawaii once, where a lava flow had crept right over the blacktop and hardened.

“A rockslide,” America said, perhaps unnecessarily.

England stepped up beside him, standing very close. They surveyed the ruined road. England laid a warm hand on America’s already sun-warmed shoulder.

“Isn’t this a complete cock-up?” he said. It sounded like he was laughing.

“I bet if we can climb up a bit, though, we could see another--”

He stopped when England spun him around, grabbed the back of his head in both hands and kissed him again, his soft lips pressing hard. He tasted like desert dust. And instead of worrying over their roadblock, America thought, hooray!

This time England wasn’t all slow and whispery, either. He practically threw America against the rock wall before trying to eat his tongue again. America kissed him back and it was hot, and even in the shade it was hot, and he didn’t think he could take any more hot, though he was willing to give it a try.

After a few minutes of being joined at the mouth, England slid his lips over to bite gently on America’s earlobe. He plucked off America’s glasses and then stared at him, all heavy-lidded and shuddery. He always did that. It had used to bug America, because he thought he looked too young without his glasses. But then he’d considered the possibility that maybe that was all part of England’s thing. So he never said anything about it.

This time he just pulled England’s shirttails out of his pants and ran his fingers over the slightly sticky skin of England’s ribcage.

“Not going to pass out on me?” he asked against England’s lips.

England pffed out a harsh breath that went up America’s nose. “I thought we’d, ah, been over that.”

America shrugged and then shivered when England bit his earlobe again. “I guess I can be over it.”

“Good to know,” England said, and proceeded to kiss him again and try to grind him back onto the cliff with his crotch. America ground back, riding England’s thigh, and God, he was hard. So was the cliff, scraping his back through his thin shirt and khakis, a lot less comfortable to shove against than England.

But then England thrust his hand down the front of America’s pants and discovered just how hard he was, squeezing and stroking with his thumb until it was all America could do to hold on and pant into England’s shoulder. His knees trembled and he started to slide down the cliff wall, but yelped when a sharp, jutting rock tried to take out his kidney.

“What’s wrong with you?” England whispered into America’s hair.

“Um. The rocks,” he said, shifting to the side, trying to find a comfortable spot to be shoved against.

England sighed. “Turn around,” he said. When America did, England gave his shoulders a push that sent him back onto his ass in the dirt. England followed, pressing him flat. He kneeled over him and thumbed open the button on America’s fly, staring down at his face while he did it.

America must have winced. “Now what?” England asked.

“I think the back of my head is bleeding,” America admitted, though he’d been sort of wiling to ignore it.

England sighed again and stuck his hand into America’s pants pocket, not to fondle him but to grab the keys to the car. He pressed the clicker and pushed himself upright. “Stay here,” he said, and stomped over to pop the hatchback. He grabbed a handful of America’s adorable Ale-E-Inn tee-shirts and tossed them onto the ground. He pointed at the pile.

“My tee-shirts!” America protested. He rubbed his hair. He was, in fact, not bleeding.

“It’s them or you,” England said. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve shagged you senseless. That shouldn’t take long.”

“Jerk,” America said. But the shagging part sounded pretty good. He weighed his options for a millisecond, then shifted over to plant his ass on the pile of shirts. Still, it was kind of an impromptu fuck and he hadn’t really been prepared… “Do you have anything to, uh, help me out, here?”

England sat down on the ground next to America and stretch-leaned back to grab his wallet out of his pocket. He thumbed through it at lightning speed and pulled out a little foil packet.

“Travel-sized lube. Ha ha,” America couldn’t help laughing. “You crafty old pervert, you.”

“I’ll show you old,” England warned.

With all the major hurdles to impromptu sex out of the way, they could finally focus on getting down to business. Business included trying to make out and undress at the same time, and trying to crawl into each other’s skin. They couldn’t seem to be fast enough or clumsy enough, and they managed to knock heads and hit each other with their elbows and knees more than once. America only had one leg out of his cargo pants when England yanked his thigh up.

“This is taking too long. Jesus, it’s been too long,” he said. America got England’s lube-slicked fingers jammed in his ass for a few moments and then no more foreplay, just England’s cock, hard and hot, and his pained-sounding, breathy finally, finally, as he worked it in.

America clenched his teeth and breathed, in and out, willing his body to relax, to let England move inside him. “No blow-job for you,” he pointed out in a strained voice.

“Twat,” England said, as he propped his hands in the dirt on either side of America’s head and jerked his hips in a couple of little bursts, not slowly, but not too fast. “Lovely, lovely,” he murmured.

America liked being called lovely, and he liked being called lovely by England, and he liked the way England caught his lower lip between his teeth while he worked out his rhythm. God, he’d missed him. He’d always missed him. He wondered if England knew that. He hoped not, at least he thought so-- it was hard to think.

He clenched his thighs around England’s waist and arched his back and didn’t care about the rocks tearing into his tee-shirts or anything, only about getting closer, closer, England inside him, hard and fast and this was way better than planes, he’d swear it--

“Good, good,” England whispered and rubbed his fingers over America’s cheek and roughly through his hair and back over his face, pressing a thumb into his mouth while he pounded the ache higher in America’s belly.

That part about senseless had been no joke: America was being screwed off his pile of tee-shirts and back onto the rocks, knocking his head around. Never had it been this urgent, never for him, never for them, and America egged England on, pushing back, whispering go, go, yes, yes around England’s thumb.

“God,” England shoved his nose into America’s ear and licked his cheek. “You,” he huffed. “Hah. You.”

“Ah! Ahgod. Me?” America managed between breaths.

England propped his forehead on America’s to look at him again. “I can’t-- hah-- believe-- hah. You named. The fucking. Car. Hah-- hah--”

America tried to laugh back but England was hitting inside him just right-- god, yes, there-- and staring at him and stroking the head of America’s dick with a thumb covered in America’s own spit. Holy crap, he was intense. America always knew who England was fucking, that was for sure.

His thighs clenched at that thought. “Oh, God. I’m going to-- hah-- come,” he breathed.

“No, you won’t,” England breathed back into America’s mouth, still swiping his thumb over the skin of America’s cock, slowly, slowly, much more slowly than he was shoving America back onto the rocks, the intense bastard. “You can--”

“Ah!” America’s body scrunched up into itself and he came, hard, all over England’s hand and god, he’d needed that--

“Im-patient,” England laughed, and kept going, kept moving, and America held on and let his body ride out the climax, let it go limp so England could keep going, and going, and he was going to go forever, hell, but it still felt good and England could do that, if he wanted. Did England know he was the only one who could do that?

Finally England huffed and slowed, his rhythm all languorous, and slid his forehead off America’s sweaty face into his hair and came, breathing America.

After a minute or two of breathing they peeled their sticky skins apart, slowly. America knew he was covered in come and sweat and dirt and he felt a little itchy but mostly super-relaxed and only hoped there weren’t any ants around.

England got his pants fastened and gave America a very sweet peck on the lips before he rolled off to flop on some tee-shirts that had been tossed about.

“That’s done, then,” he said in a somewhat raspy voice. “Brilliant.”

“Drink some water,” America told him first, and then, “yep.”

England propped himself on one elbow and looked at America. He brushed at America’s stomach absently with one of the less-dusty tee-shirts. He was being downright cozy. “What were you saying about climbing up, anyway?”

“I was thinking if we got high enough, we could see if there was another way we could drive, a detour, to get past the rockslide.” America attempted to re-dress himself, wondering if it was a lost cause. They’d have to find somewhere to clean up before presenting themselves to anyone, that was for sure.

England tossed the shirt-now-rag at him. “We’re not going anywhere. Unless it’s back to the hotel.”

“Uh, yeah we are,” America said, deciding in that instant that it wasn’t a lost cause at all. In fact, he was more determined to go than ever. Turning him down, seriously. What had they been thinking? “So you should probably help me look, right?” He smiled.

“Ridiculous.” England stood up, coughing. America turned up the wattage of his smile but England only went over to pluck a bottle of water out of the hatchback. He took a couple of gulps and then poured some onto his hands to rinse them off. “Don’t smile at me like that. You always try and tell me what to do.”

“I never tell you. I only made really awesome suggestions,” America pointed out.

“You never know when to quit. Like in Vietnam.”

Or the American Revolution. Washington had never quit, and look where the U.S.A. was now! America thought, but didn’t say aloud. He wanted England in a good mood. See? He could be diplomatic. Too bad pointing that out would defeat his purpose. He took a deep breath.

“We won’t go very far. I promise,” he wheedled. “Come on. It’s an adven--”

“Adventure, right,” England said. He brushed ineffectually at the brown dust smudging the front of his shirt. America’s revenge for his head, ha ha! “A very little ways, then.”

“Great!” America said. He could always talk England around, sooner or later.

***

England stopped climbing for a moment and sipped his bottled water. The only way to go was up, around, and over the half-collapsed mineshaft, and the climb was much more steep and uneven than it had appeared. What looked like smooth, desert dirt from a few meters away proved, up close, to be rutted with holes and plants and unstable pebbles that slid under his feet and tumbled down the mountain. To make the climb even more perilous, America had warned him to watch out for scorpions and ‘rattlers!’

England wished he’d been wearing footgear more suited to a desert-mountain climb. He eyed his loafers, somewhat stylish in a classic way and functional enough for city walking, but next to useless out here. Some of his old army boots, say, the ones he’d worn in Egypt or the Sudan, would have set him up just right.

If the way America slipped and whoops!ed above him were any indication, his own hiking-style boots were also more stylish than functional. But then, one never knew with American sportgear, and America was very often noisy when he was having fun.

England was somewhat surprised to discover that he wasn’t not having fun, himself. Despite the bear of a climb and the sun and heat and dryness and the stinging fauna and the fact that his bum itched, England was in a fairly decent mood. America’s enthusiasm for this ridiculous adventure had proven catching.

Somehow the utter chaos their trip had become, with its attendant absurdity and lust, had allowed England to release the bottled-up tension he’d carried with him from home-- how would they interact, would they be normal, would they be awkward, would it just not work, would America lose interest, and would he be able to stand it if he did-- and to just let it be. To not think about it, to focus on nothing more weighty than the fine view of America’s bum just above him.

“…words of wisdom, let it beeee…” England murmured.

America turned and smiled down at him, the rest of him looked appealing as well, if a little mussed and filthy. Quite sexy, actually. “Are you okay? What are ya muttering, back there?”

“I was singing,” England informed him.

“Ha ha! Is that what that was?”

“Yes, dolt,” England said, smiling just a little. “I’m fine.”

America’s grin widened as if England had just given him a great compliment. England was pleased to feel, secretly, that he’d produced that expression. Somehow they just…. went on. How it happened was a happy mystery.

America pointed up. “If we can get over this little rise, here, I’m hoping we’ll see the road.”

“Lead on,” England said.

The rise America had indicated, true to form, looked like it was a mere few meters away but took them another half-hour to climb. And when they crested the rise, the view was not promising. They could see the continuation of the road, but it was not reachable by automobile. On one side the road hugged the mountain, and on the other it skirted a sheer-sided canyon, drowned in shadow. Then the road wound through terrain that was definitely not fit for an automobile such as their-- he refused to even think the name; it was too silly. Their bubble.

“Well, crap,” America said.

“Typical,” England said, trying not to sound too smug.

America sighed. “I guess I didn’t think-- well, anyway. You were right. We’re not going anywhere.”

He sounded so dispirited that England wanted to pat his shoulder. He didn’t. “It was a valiant effort,” he said, and America brightened again.

“On to plan ‘C,’ then!”

England narrowed his eyes. “What is plan ‘C?’”

“It’s a secret.”

It was England’s turn to sigh. “As long as it involves a return to our hotel,” he warned.

“Yeah, it does.” America’s lips quirked. “A shower and a real bed! You kinda pounded me against the rocks, back there.”

America was so… blithe, about these things. Still, England felt his cheeks warm at the memory. He thought perhaps he might do it again. He’d see how he felt when they reached their automobile.

By the time they climbed down, however, England had worked off much of his lust with too much exercise. In addition, the shade from the cliff had crawled past their car, and it was considerably more cool than it had been two hours ago. America shook out a couple of tee-shirts they’d left on the ground and tossed them into the back of the vehicle. They climbed in, filling the little car with dust and exhaustion.

But when America turned the key in the ignition, the radio came on, the lights came on, and the motor did not. America clicked the key back and forth a few times, kicking gently at the pedals on the floor.

“Uh,” America said, trying twice more.

Typical-er and typical-er. England crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the seat, then closed his eyes and settled in for a relaxing nap. “We’re out of petrol, aren’t we?” he murmured.

“No! The gauge says we still have a little. I think. The check-engine lights are on…” England heard more clicks and the low, on-and-off crackle of the radio. “Uh. Lemme pop the hood.”

America climbed out and England then heard some mechanical creaking and the clink and grind of metal bits, and then some low curses from America. He sighed and exited to see if he could assist.

America was staring into the car’s motor, wavering the beam from a little penlight about it. His cheeks were a little pink when he looked at England.

“I-- I’m pretty good with cars. But I don’t really know what’s wrong with this one…”

“I certainly don’t, unless it’s lack of petrol. The battery seems to be working.” England’s own obsession with automobiles tended towards the classic and military, not the Green. That was the province of Germany and Japan. “You’ll have to call for assistance.”

“I guess.” America sighed and brushed his motor-oil-smudged hands on his trousers. He went around to reach inside the car, while England poked uselessly at some of the wires. After a few moments he heard America say, oh, fuckity-fuck, whatever that meant.

“Issue?”

“No signal. Not even a military signal, which I know they have. Weird. Where’s your cell? Oh, here it is.” England looked around the bonnet to see America with a mobile in each hand, looking at them and then pressing them to each ear. He winced when he saw England watching him. “Uh. We’re kind of boned.”

England looked down at the road they’d used to get here, the dwindling dust track that led for an hour’s drive across the vast bowl of the valley before winding around a foothill and disappearing from view. They also knew what lay ahead, and it wasn’t an option. They were truly in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of America. He sighed. Utter chaos, this adventure. Somehow, it was still rather amusing, if inconvenient. Spending so much time around America had had an effect on him, for good or ill.

“Then here is our course of action,” he said. “One, we can try to signal for help. A fire might work. Two, we can wait it out and hope for the best. At least we know it won’t kill us. I’ve been forced to endure worse outdoor conditions. The Great War comes to mind.” He shivered at the memory.

America’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “You’re. Uh. Taking this pretty well, you know.”

“Aren’t I?” England said, in a voice that was perhaps slightly wondering. He felt nearly like Japan in his zen.

“I like it,” America said.

“Do you, now,” England said, eyeing America’s pink cheeks with no little appreciation.

“It’ll get cold at night,” America said, swiping his palms on his trouser pockets again. This time, England watched the gesture with a little more interest, thinking about what lay beneath them. It seemed he’d figured out his zen mindset, at least-- if he wasn’t so sex-besotted, then perhaps his mood might have been a bit more foul. But he’d spent plenty of nights in the last couple of centuries, in war years and in peace, keeping warm with thoughts of keeping warm against America. For now he had the real thing, and his gonads-- and other, more soppy bits of his anatomy-- were more than glad to make use of it while they could.

“Find something to burn, and you can be fucked next to a nice, hot fire, then.”

America looked startled, then laughed. “You are outta control, man. Ha ha!”

“You like that too, do you?” England stepped forward, but America backed away.

“Yeah. Lots. But, uh. I don’t wanna cut down anything I don’t have to. Why don’t we look in there?” He pointed at the crack in the cliff wall. “Maybe we can stay in there!”

England’s thwarted libido was further thwarted by a shudder of disgust. “No. It looks unstable. I’m not setting foot in there.”

“I’ll go,” America said, hunching down to squeeze into the hole. To ease his worry over having to dig America out, England went to the car to try and start it, unsuccessfully. So he checked their water supply. America had, at some point before they’d left, stashed an entire, bound pack of water bottles in the hatchback. It had been an intelligent move, England had to admit. There were some bags of crisps and sweets as well, and the Styrofoam box held ice and more water. Certainly enough to get them through the night, if they had to stay, if a fire didn’t attract attention.

“Ha ha! Look.” America could be an idiot, but as usual, he proved himself resourceful and capable. He stepped out from the dank-looking cave-shaft, carrying some small, dusty logs. “I don’t think this place is as abandoned as it looks. There are beer cans in there, too.”

“Any of them full?”

“No. I checked that first,” America said, dropping the wood into a pile near where they’d had their fuck earlier. He walked back to the darkened entrance, fingering some odd-looking, rusty hooks embedded in the cliff wall on either side of it. “There’s an old cart, too. This was a mine, once. I wonder what they were digging for? I wonder why they left.”

“Personally, I can’t blame them,” England said. He’d visited mines in Wales, from time to time. Mining was dark, depressing work.

“Yeah. I guess.” America turned from the entrance and flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. He pulled his spectacles from his shirt-pocket and put them on, seeming not to care that he was wearing both pairs at once. “Hey, it’s too bad you don’t smoke anymore. I could use a light.”

England dug in his trousers-pocket and produced a pack of matches. America looked surprised but pleased, and England didn’t explain.

By the time they’d set up a circle of rocks to contain their fire, found receipts to use as starters and gotten the logs to burn, the sun was already setting. Despite the great width of the sky, the mountains out here made sunset seem to rush upon them. The west was to their backs, and the sky above was pink and blue and yellow, looking like something out of a Maxfield Parrish illustration. It was so lovely England could forgive the chill creeping into the air at his back. Though his bum still itched.

He realized he was still wearing his own sunglasses and removed them. America, returning from the car with a bag of crisps, saw him and snorted.

“You have raccoon eyes, ha ha! It makes your crazy eyebrows stand out even more. Didn’t you put on the sunscreen I gave you?”

England rubbed at his eyes, even though he couldn’t see what America was talking about and refused to be so vain as to visit the car mirrors to have a look. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyebrows, git.”

America’s eyes alit and he seemed as if he were about to make a saucy comment, but then he glanced away and nudged the rocks around their little fire with his boot. “I didn’t say there was,” he said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. He looked back at England, his gaze steady. “It’s part of your… your--”

“Charm?” England muttered. He’d been told he had none. It was an assessment of his character that he could unfortunately agree with.

“No. Your… You. Which is… good.”

“Ah,” England said, a little surprised. That had been a rather pleasing thing to hear, actually. America was silent and staring at him, as if he didn’t know what to say next. England could not have replied, anyway, because his throat was as stretched as if he’d swallowed a rock. So he just stared back.

They’d never really known what to do with each other in honest moments. Things either got silly, or lately, sexual. America’s hands opened and closed at his sides and he looked so filthy and nonplussed that England’s insides all began to hurt at once, his heart and lungs and stomach and bones and lord, everything stuffed in there was heavy: a disadvantage of being too much history personified. He was about to make a move, to do something either silly or sexual to end the moment, but America moved first.

He stepped close and grabbed England’s elbows in one quick gesture, then sighed, leaning forward until their foreheads bumped. He was still staring. The odd moment was prolonged until it seemed to gain its own gravity, its own history. Earlier, England had lamented being so vulnerable to America’s moods, and this one was no exception. England knew his own feelings, but to be considered so, in return, was almost… too much.

America was nothing if not too much. His two-centimeter advantage in height was never more apparent than at times like this; he loomed much too large. Still, he seemed to have trouble deciding what he wanted to say. “I, uh, wanted a getaway, but not like-- I’m glad you’re he-- That you’re having-- Because I think this is--”

“Idiot,” England whispered. They had too many flaws in common. His fault, probably.

“Well, thanks, anyway,” America said, and England didn’t think he was being thanked for the insult. Thankfully, America then seemed to decide that attempting to speak intelligently was too much of a chore. He tilted his head and kissed England on the mouth, proving that warm lips and breath were an advantage of being personified. England wet his dry tongue on the inside of America’s mouth and reached into his trousers waistband, to grope his slightly sticky flesh. America was annoyingly muscular everywhere else but his stomach was soft, like a girl’s. It was much more arousing than it should have been, but not as much as America shuddering under his fingers.

They sort of stumbled for a bit before balancing against each other. America was too tall, too much. England released his hold on America’s stomach to peel off his spectacles, so he could study up close the shape of his eyes, his cheeks, the small, odd smile curling his lips. God, he looked so young. Dear lad. England formed words soundlessly against America’s mouth, words he’d never say aloud. Flawed; they were too flawed to work, how had they ever managed to get this far?

He dimly heard the clink and scrape of metal but was planning to ignore it. He couldn’t ignore, however, the sudden manner in which America lurched and poked England’s eye-socket with his nose, or the crunch of plastic and America’s laugh. America pulled away and squinted down at his feet.

“Oh, crap. I stepped all over my chips!”

“No moment that can’t be marred by silliness,” England muttered under his breath. He rolled his eyes heavenward. The sky was-- “Jesus!” he exclaimed.

“What? Oh, wow.” America looked up and saw what England had seen: the stars, thousands of them, dusting the now-dark sky, so thick they were like clouds.

England held onto America with one hand and tried not to fall into the vast bowl of the sky. He picked out the lines and shapes of constellations he’d known once, long ago. There were still places in the world where one could see stars like this, but he rarely visited them. Business and politics and history these days took place in cities, where arc-sodium lights drowned out the universe. “I haven’t seen a sky like that since-- in years.”

“Yeah,” America murmured, craning his neck to take in the whole of the sky. “God, remember the seventeen-hundreds? We didn’t even think about them. They were just there. And I hardly noticed ‘em disappearing.”

England had, but then he’d been around since long before the seventeen-hundreds, since even before such dates had existed. He stared at America’s upturned face, the sheen on his lips. He imagined America’s mouth doing things that would have to wait. Other things might not have to wait. Deciding on their next step was not a difficult decision for a mind as single as his.

“Why don’t we sit down next to this nice, warm fire,” he suggested in a low voice to America’s jugular. America jumped, then jumped back a step or two.

“I’m all for-- for--” At England’s exasperated look he waved his hands in front of him, as if reaching for something invisible. “Well, warm fires and-- stuff. But the ground is really hard. And it really, uh, hurts.”

England crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He was going to start feeling rejected, soon. It wasn’t his fault they were stuck in the middle of a rocky desert. “Where were you planning to sleep, then?”

“Well, I was hoping someone would see our fire and come to help.” America looked out at the now-dark valley, at the utter lack of rescue lights or of any lights, really. Nothing but stars.

“And if they don’t?” England dismissed such foolishness. He again set his hands on America’s warm waist, and God, he was too tall. Though at least they were back on somewhat familiar ground, marred and imperfectly perfect as it was.

“Uh.” America closed his eyes, as if distracted by the way England was massaging the soft flesh under his ribs. “Pookie?”

England rolled his eyes, then looked at the car and tried to figure out how he was going to have sex with America in those tiny bucket seats. Or even sleep. They were just too small. America looked at him and must have read his mind. He began to move his forearms in falling-over motions.

“It’s a hatchback? The seats go down? Plenty of room?”

England considered this, and their respective heights. “Prove it,” he said.

He waited behind the car and scratched his back-- ouch-- while America fooled with levers and mumbled fuckity-fucks. Finally, with a triumphant-sounding hah! and a couple of thumps, America slammed the rear seat forward. Then he crawled into the back on his hands and knees-- the rear edge went flat like a truck bed-- and shoved their supplies around to clear a space.

England watched and waited some more. When America took much too long to make simple spatial decisions, England slapped him lightly on the bum. He heard a thump and an ow! as America hit his head, but at least America stopped faffing and flopped over onto his back.

“See?” he called out. “Plenty of room.”

England looked at America’s boots hanging off the rear edge, and then peered inside to note the uncomfortable-looking angle of America’s neck. He looked back out at their little fire, and at the hole in the rock wall. He heard the odd scrape of metal again. What was that noise? “Looks cozy,” he shrugged, and climbed in.

There was, admittedly, plenty of clear space to one side but he clambered atop Mount America, anyway, nabbing a long kiss at the summit. After a few pleasant moments he decided America would make a fine bed and burrowed down, tucking his limbs wherever they would fit.

“You did say you always wanted to,” America gasped as England shoved his tongue into his ear.

“Do you not?” England whispered, nibbling on America’s dusty earlobe.

“Yeah,” America whispered back, reaching around to pull England’s shirt out of his trousers. The cold air hitting England’s spine sent shuddering chills racing along it, or maybe it was just the way America’s thighs were clenching around his own. “Duh.”

“Ouch,” England said. America’s fingers had found a sensitive spot on his back, and-- his whole back seemed sensitive, stinging wherever America touched it. “Mind your fingernails,” he warned.

“You feel warm. Are you okay?”

“Warm? It’s fucking freezing,” England said, unbuttoning America’s shirt to get closer to his acres of warm skin. “Ah! That hurts.”

“I’ll bet you’ve got a sun-burn,” America sing-songed at him.

England froze. He thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d-- the sunlight--

“Bollocks, bastard, bloody--” England muttered, trying to find a curse to fit the situation. He winced when America ran his palm, even gently, across his bum. No wonder it had itched so. He’d fried it, for fuck’s sake.

“Bollocks,” he said again. He shoved his face into America’s shoulder and wished he’d been more liberal with the sunscreen. Who would have thought he’d need full-body coverage?

“We’ll get you some aloe, when we get-- Well, do you want to stop?”

England thought for a moment. True, his entire back side was rather tender. But the erection he was currently chafing against America’s lower belly requested precedence, to be polite about it. “You’re the one on your back. As long as you stay there…”

“My back hurts too, you know,” America pointed out, squirming under him.

England licked the join of America’s shoulder and neck and America squirmed some more. “You can always roll over and take it on your knees, then,” England told him. His cock did a little twitch inside his trousers at the thought of doing it that way…

“Woof? Ah--” America said when England twitched and jammed his thumb into his navel. He put on a terrible false accent. “Don’t think there’s room, old chap, what what, then?”

England plastered his mouth over America’s skin to keep from laughing, because such foolishness was not in the least amusing. “Just shut it. Twat,” he said.

“This’ll work,” America breathed into his hair, and England allowed himself a smile. He liked the rare occasions when America did what he was told. To show his gratitude, he kissed America until he himself was senseless. There were so many things one could say with mouths that couldn’t be heard, only felt: I want you. I missed you. I never stopped doing so.

And there was that sensation again, all the hot, churning thought and feeling and history and everything racing into England’s limbs. He shouldn’t have been surprised but he was, was continually surprised at the depth of his lust, like his body had stored up every lonely moment. Though at that moment, they seemed to be trying to rub each others’ clothing off through sheer friction.

“God, you make me hot,” America mumbled, harsh breaths into England’s mouth.

“Mmmmphfuck,” England moaned, in pain all over, lord, he wanted America more than he wanted air. But he’d wanted to take his time this round, savor the experience a bit more, no matter that it wasn’t in the soft, fluffy hotel bed he’d planned upon--

To distract himself he crawled back a bit, kissing down America’s bared chest to suck softly at a scar on his breastbone, barely visible in the scant, yellow firelight, tasting the rasp of America’s breath and the thump of his heart through his lips. Yes, there were advantages in bodies, in flesh-- though not enough of it--

“Get these-- off,” he ordered, playing fingers over the zipper to America’s trousers, stroking the hard bulge beneath his thin khakis.

“H’okay,” America breathed. England heard the thump of America’s boots hitting the dirt outside as he kicked them off, and by propping themselves on each other they managed to wriggle out of most of their clothing-- England opted to keep his shirt on, because it was fucking cold, indeed.

His skin crawled with heat and chills until he pressed himself back onto America’s bare flesh, glad for height when it was stretched out beneath him. He stroked the length of America’s cock, dry and hot in his hand.

“Think you can make a better showing of it, this time?” he asked, as America puffed harsh breaths at him, loud in the confines of the car.

“All-- uh-- night, if you want to, old man. Ha ha.” His voice sounded pained.

“The entire giant night sky,” England whispered, ignoring that old for the nonce.

“Yeah,” America breathed. He caressed England’s cheeks and ran his fingers through his hair, touching where he was perhaps allowed. He tightened his grip and pulled England’s hair for a painful few seconds when England nudged a lube-slicked finger-- probably cold-- into the crack of his arse.

“’S’allright, lad,” he whispered against America’s lips as he stretched him open, more gently this time, though lord, he was hot inside. All of America, burning under his fingers, all around him, overwhelming him to say things he usually kept locked inside in true British style. “D’ye want me, then?”

“Yeah,” America repeated. England would have felt embarrassed to be answered, but for America shoving his bum against England’s palm and lifting his leg to prop his foot against the car roof. He stared at England from half-lidded eyes, dark blue and intent. “Oh man, England. Please.”

“Ah,” England managed around the stone lodged in his throat. He was a bit quick to swipe lube over his cock, aching into his fingers, fuck, he could just wank all night and stare into America’s face like that. But eventually he grabbed America’s thigh and pulled up his bum so he could nudge his cock inside. America was as hot and tight as he’d promised England’s fingers. He hissed between his teeth as England boosted his hips forward by notches, tiny and quick.

Once England had shoved inside America as far as he could go, he started off as gently he’d planned. He rocked slowly against and inside America’s body, focusing on the close slide of their sweaty-sticky-cool skin, the squeezing heat of America around his cock, the slow burn and build, yes. Minutes and minutes of breathing and skin, and lovely, lovely--

“I still can’t believe you are--” America began, and then cut off on a harsh gasp.

“I know. I--” England answered, then kissed America to keep from saying anything more. He breathed America’s high, sharp moans as he angled his thrusts up, still forcing his muscles to keep a slow, steady rhythm. In, and in, and god, he felt good, and smelled good, like dust and sweat and sun, and his moans tasted wonderful.

“Ouch, dammit,” England was forced to mumble a few minutes later, when America tried to grab his shoulders. “Ah-- don’t--”

“S-- sorry-- ah-- I didn’t--”

America dropped his hands but he didn’t seem to know what to do with them, just flopped them about as England drove into him. England finally grabbed them one by one, twining fingers with him, pressing one of his hands back against the smooth carpet and propping the other against the window. The leverage was good and he could move faster and faster, could feel the tensing of America’s hands, clenching more and more tightly as he did so, until he was thrusting inside hard enough to send America’s head crashing repeatedly into the back of the seat. Well, it had to be better than the rocks…

America squeezed his fingers and smiled through his moans, and England wondered if he’d ever tire of-- of fucking America. But this wasn’t just fucking and if it was ever turned into something else, by politics or personality, England knew he’d just rather go without.

This was-- this was-- his knees burned and his muscles burned and clenched as the tension in his belly wound more tightly. He had to slow down or he’d climax too soon, and what a humiliation that would be--

“Ah,” America yelled, then “ah-- eh-- oh, no,” and the muscles squeezing tight around England’s cock spasmed and America climaxed, ending England’s dilemma rather swiftly. England, grateful, pressed his mouth into the sweat on America’s cheek and let his body rock those few, last, disjointed, necessary thrusts, until it tensed and caught on the very peak of sensation and then over. His release shuddered through him.

“You outlasted me again,” America commented a little while later, when they’d both caught their breath and brains.

“Barely,” England admitted. With the relaxation of his muscles, the pain all along his backside made itself known again. He nestled into the sticky sweat-semen mess that was America’s naked body. “I don’t believe I can lie on my back. I’ll just sleep here like this,” he said.

America patted his head. “You’re warm but you won’t be for long. And--” He stopped talking when his stomach growled.

“You are incorrigi--” England began, then halted when he heard that odd, metallic scraping noise again. “What the living fuck is that noise?”

America hmphed. “I knew I should have gotten some burgers for the road. Aren’t you hungry at all?”

“No, that’s not-- never mind,” England said. The noise had stopped, anyway.

America wiggled but England just stayed put right atop him, incredibly tired all of a sudden. He was still feeling the aftereffects of their carousing the evening prior, and the burn along his backside further sapped his energy. After a few more minutes, however, the remaining sweat on his skin had turned cold in the chilly night air, making him much less comfortable. When America’s stomach rumbled again and he wiggled some more, England took the hint and climbed off, gingerly. America climbed out and scrambled into his clothing but England took his time re-dressing, trying not to abrade his poor bum.

America returned from fireside carrying his crushed bag of crisps. He shook the bag at England. “Want some?”

“No, thank you,” England said. He rubbed at the fronts of his arms, them climbed back into the car. He couldn’t sit and he couldn’t lie on his back, so he stretched out face-down and tried to drink a bottle of water without pouring it all over himself. Though it probably wouldn’t have hurt him; America wasn’t the only one who was now filthy.

America inhaled his crisps and then joined England in the car. He looked surprised but delighted when England pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him again.

“You’re being awfully cuddly. Like a blanket.”

England was secretly pleased. He had never been called cuddly before. Though he may have heard the term wet blanket once or twice. “Fucking cold,” England muttered.

“I guess we can have sex again to stay warm,” America mumbled, and England roused his tired hips to rub suggestively over America’s, once or twice.

“Sounds like a promise.”

America snored. England sighed and closed his eyes.

The next time he opened them, the landscape had changed; silver moonlight filled the car and lit the valley, glistening on the rocks like a white morning. England was just waking up enough to admire it when a sudden long, deep and mournful howl filled the valley and echoed off the cliff, then repeated. After a moment or two he heard it again, and it sounded very close.

“What in bloody fuck is that?” he said, to no one in particular.

“Coyote. Won’t hurt us,” America mumbled, and went back to sleep. England shrugged and closed his eyes again.

The next time he opened them, it was because the metallic clinking and scraping noise had returned, this time in force, more loudly and without fading as it had before. It sounded like something was yanking at a heavy chain, struggling to escape. When England heard low growls he pushed himself up and crawled to the open back of the car to have a look.

A gigantic fucking dog that looked like a dirty, matted shepherd of some sort was staring at him from next to the car. It growled, showing vicious-looking teeth. England stayed very still and stared back into the dog’s angry, red eyes. Then he waved his hand at it.

“Shoo! Shoo. Bloody ugly dog. Bugger off.”

The dog stopped growling and sat back on its haunches. It tilted its head at England and managed to look surprised in a canine sort of way. That was when England noticed the chain, tied in a painful-looking manner around the dog’s neck and connected at the other end to-- to-- the hooks embedded in the cliff wall. Where there had been no chains earlier.

“Ah,” England said, sliding out of the car to walk over to the dog. “Poor bastard. Good dog.”

Before England reached it the dog simply disappeared, its chain clinking on the ground once before vanishing as well. England shrugged and climbed back into the car and laid face-down, half-atop America. He pulled some of America’s tee-shirts over and shoved them under his head.

“Who were you talking to?” America mumbled.

“Ghost dog,” England told him.

“Oh,” America said, and shivered once or twice before snoring again.

***

America woke up and wasn’t sure where he was. His ass hurt. In fact, his whole body was stiff and sore. He opened his eyes, and saw… grey carpet? And a dome-light. Then he remembered they were in the car. In the desert. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

He’d been dreaming that he was driving one of those old crank-case cars, like the one he’d had a hundred or so years ago. He’d been cranking it and cranking it, trying to get it started while being yelled at by a ghost who had chains clanking all over him, like the ghost in A Christmas Carol. Then he’d been having a drink with Poland, except Poland was a purple frog. They’d been solving a mystery. He’d understood what was wrong with Pookie, and how to fix her. It had all made such sense. And then he’d woken up.

England snored into his shoulder. America realized he had a mouthful of England’s hair, and nudged it out with his tongue. While the rest of his limbs were waking up, he heard a noise, like a distant mechanical vroom.

He patted England, gently. “Wake up! I think someone’s coming.”

“Mwuh,” England said.

America smooched the top of England’s head and then eased it off his shoulder. Then he eased the rest of England off of him. England resisted; America must have made an awesome mattress, even though he had a bit of a morning boner. His Ale-E-Inn tee-shirts were piled all over the two of them. England must have pulled them up like blankets at some point during the night. How sweet.

“Seriously. I think someone’s coming,” America said, a little more loudly. “I wanna, uh, rinse off.” He was covered with things he didn’t think any of his people needed to see, and there was a darned good chance England was, too.

He found his glasses when he was digging in the package of water-bottles. He plopped them on-- they were filthy, too-- and scooted to the edge of the hatchback. His shoes were lying in the dust.

“Shake your shoes out before you put them on. Or you might find a critter biting your toes, ha ha,” he said. He shook his own-- thankfully critter-free-- boots out.

“Mwuh,” England said again, and his leg twitched. “Stop bouncing around.”

“Uh-huh,” America said, tying his shoes. It was a chilly but beautiful morning: the sky was yellow, the landscape was yellow, and when he went over to check that their fire had burned out, he saw that even their silvery-gray Pookie shone like gold in the early sunlight. A little lizard scampered past his feet and off into the rocks. In the distance, he could see what looked like a tiny dust-cloud weaving back and forth along the valley floor.

“I can see something coming!”

England had managed to lift himself to his knees. “Fuck, I hurt. Fuck, bloody fuck.”

“Poor England,” America said, and actually meant it. He splashed some water on his face, then scrambled out of his shirt and poured more water-- cold, cold, cold-- over all the various sticky things on his chest. The cold water took care of his semi-erection, at least. Dripping and shivering, he watched England crawl backwards out of the car.

“Don’t suppose you’ve boiled any tea yet, then?” England said. He did a sort of stiff zombie-walk over to stare down into the remains of the fire.

“Nope. Sorry,” America said. His whole body went all smooshy and tight at the same time, the tight ache most acute in the center of his chest. It hurt, and it had nothing to do with the sex they’d had, or maybe it did.

England had been a real trooper. It was an awesome adventure, after all, but maybe there had been some little unexpected twists, the kind that might usually make England try and choke him to death, or at least bitch at him and then not speak to him for another thirty years. But England was still joking with him.

England must really love him. And there: he’d thought it, though he wouldn’t tell England he had. He’d just have to… hold up his end of the deal.

Smooshy thoughts kept him warm-ish while he splashed water over the rest of himself, exposing as little skin as possible at a time. He finally gave up on rubbing himself dry and re-dressed. He considered putting on a tee-shirt or two under his button-down shirt and then remembered what the tee-shirts had been through.

While England splashed himself off, cursing and shivering, America went to look back into the valley. The little dust-cloud had gotten a bit larger and closer. It was forming itself into the shape of an SUV, trundling up the road. He pointed it out to England.

“We can’t expect a tow, then,” England said. He made faces as he pulled his shirt on over his reddened back.

“Nah. But I sure hope they can help. The first thing we’ll buy when we get to a town is aloe lotion for your back.” America told him in a quiet voice.

England turned to stare at him in mid-wince. He actually grinned, sort of-- well, maybe it was a half-grin. “It feels a bit better, actually,” he said.

America’s heart did a painful little thumpy-thump. “Oh, that’s great!”

“Just a bit, mind,” England said, and drew his thick eyebrows down in a scowl.

“Ha ha,” America said. They stared at each other for a few long moments, like they were considering each other in daylight. England looked rumpled and sort of in pain and… pretty darned adorable, America thought with a bit of a guilty pang. England had always taken ‘buttoned-down’ to near-insane heights and, admittedly, he wore it well. Still, America liked the rare occasions when he loosened up. He thought he might kiss the scowl off England’s face, no matter that his own mouth tasted like dead lizard or something; England’s probably did, too. But then they both heard the vroom of someone gunning a motor close by. The SUV was coming up the hill to their little shelf in the mountain. It was tan-colored, with circular star-markings on the side. America sighed. “Looks like a sheriff’s deputy.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Ah. Good, I think,” America said. He lamented the lack of more proper ID, but as soon as he could get a cell signal, he knew he could straighten everything out. He could have made some sure-to-be-effective calls yesterday, of course, but the thought of an adventure had been so much more appealing. At least, before it had involved sleeping in the car, awesome sex notwithstanding. “But you might try to look non-threatening. Like, uh, keep your hands up…ish.”

England looked at the sheriff’s SUV and his eyebrow-scowl grew. “Are they going to shoot at us?”

“Nah. I just don’t want them to freak.”

“Gun-toting paranoiacs,” England muttered. But he took a nice, nonthreatening stance, anyway.

“Not true,” America said. “We just maintain the right to bear arms. And Canada--”

“Don’t say it--”

But America had gone too far to stop. “--maintains the right to arm bears. Ha ha!”

England sighed. “Silly, this time. Incidentally, that has never been funny.”

“It’s always funny,” America said. He thought about asking what England had meant by silly this time, but he didn’t get a chance; he had to put on his own non-threatening grin as the sheriff’s SUV’s transmission clicked into park. One of the tinted windows opened halfway.

“Lincoln County Sheriff,” a voice announced. “You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll need to see your IDs-- keep your hands where I can see ‘em-- and tell me what you’re doin’ out here.”

They got their IDs-- carefully-- and America walked them over. The window rolled down all the way and America could see the driver, a hefty, middle-aged man in a tan uniform. ‘R. Jones’ was stitched on the pocket below his badge. There was another deputy, younger and slimmer, watching him carefully from the passenger seat. Mr. Jones and his partner were men of service-- America respected that. So he didn’t point out that US lands weren’t really ‘private property.’

“We were on a drive yesterday, sir,” America said. He smiled as he handed over the IDs. “The road was blocked, and then our car broke down--”

“Uh-huh,” R. Jones said. “We got a call that there was a fire up here last night. Usually it’s teenagers or UFO hunters. Are you UFO hunters?”

“Good God, no,” England muttered from behind America.

“Hmm,” Jones said. He looked at their IDs. “Colin Firth, huh? Did you know you got the same name as a British actor? You don’t look like him, though. I oughta know, ‘cause I look at him every day. My wife has a picture of him on our computer desktop. Sure this isn’t fake? Heh.”

“A-hem,” England said, very clearly.

“No sir,” America said to Jones, ignoring England. It wasn’t really a lie; the ID was an ‘official’ fake after all. And how was he to know Colin Firth was so well-known at his place? In retrospect, choosing that name maybe hadn’t been his most awesome idea ever. He’d just wanted to be all incognito for this whirlwind vacation.

Jones copied some information from their IDs. He nodded at England. “Well, you’re a Brit, anyway. You fellas know that this is a private road, owned by Wackenhut Security? It’s clearly marked. And the direction you were headed is Air Force land. So we’ll all just go down to the office in Rachel and I’ll run your IDs there. What’s wrong with your car?”

“I think the fuel line is blocked,” America said, and he heard England’s small wot? of surprise.

“Could be,” Jones said. He waved the back of his hand at America, motioning him to step back. Then both men got out of the car and the young deputy watched them while Jones dug around in the back of the SUV. He pulled out a bottle of fuel additive. “Dust gets in the fuel lines, sometimes. That’s not a very good vehicle for these roads. You have gas?”

“We’ve got. Um. A little under a quarter-tank,” America said. “But it’s a hybrid.”

England sighed and Jones nodded at him, as if in commiseration.

“Not real brainy of ya, all the way out here. Hybrid or not.”

America winced. Not only did he need to make it up to England, he needed to redeem his awesome-itude. He really wanted to make a couple of phone calls.

Instead he tried to start Pookie. Jones listened to her sad, little revs that went nowhere, then nodded and had America pop the gas-cap.

“Where were you boys headed?” he asked as he poured the additive into Pookie’s tank.

“Just out for a drive,” America answered, since England was standing back with his arms crossed and lips zipped into a thin line. “We’re actually staying in Las Vegas.”

“Young guys like yourselves usually want to stay where the lights and booze and girls are,” Jones pointed out.

“I was told I needed to see natural wonders,” England piped in. America gave him a grateful smile.

“We’ve got those,” Jones said. “So you guys ended up out here together? After bein’ from different sides of the pond, and all.”

England answered again. “We’re. Ah. Political colleagues.”

“Uh huh,” Jones said, in a wondering tone.

America wasn’t sure how to feel about that answer, himself. He considered saying, colleagues with major sex benefits, just to get a reaction, but before he could decide if he should, the younger deputy spoke up.

“Didja see the hell-hounds?”

America looked at him, and promptly forgot sex benefits. A shudder he couldn’t explain rippled up his spine. “Hell-hounds?”

“Spirits of dogs that were abandoned with the mines a hundred years ago,” Jones said. “See those old hooks in the rock? Angry-ass dog-spirits, too.”

“I didn’t-- uh--” America began, with a feeling that there was something he should remember.

“They’re well enough, if you speak to them properly,” England said.

Jones cocked an eyebrow at England as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Ho-kay. So, Mister Firth, why don’t you try to start this little air-burner?”

America tried the ignition again, trying not to think about spirit-dogs or anything of the sort. And this time, Pookie’s engine vroomed to life with barely a hiccup. “Hooray!” America said, and England hmphed.

Jones ordered them to follow him back down to Rachel. “You’re not gonna try to run away in that thing,” he pointed out, as if America would have tried. He knew how to do things correctly, even if he didn’t always choose the easy path.

Rather than giving America the expected lecture, England climbed into the car, leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t say much, other than that he was bone tired, and please try to hit as few bumps as possible, thank you, and then he seemed to fall asleep. So America drove, carefully, though England grunted whenever he hit a bump or a rock, of which there were many. Yesterday he’d hardly paid attention to the bumps and rocks because England had been so grabby-horny. He’d been in such a good mood!

America needed him in an even better mood if he was to convince him to go one more place before he had to leave tomorrow-- that was, if America’s phone calls were as efficient as he hoped.

And then a novel idea hit America’s brain like a neutrino: he’d just… ask. Just to be sure.

“Hey, are you doing--”

“I’m merely very tired,” England said, with his eyes still closed.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Really?”

“As long as you stop asking, yes.” England’s lips actually curled up at the corners.

“Oh, good.” America sighed with relief. It was weird, how this… change in their relationship had made him so paranoid. Or maybe part of that was from the war on terror. Either way, it was a weird thing to deal with.

“By the way,” America said a few moments later. “I’m going to forget that I’ve ever heard the words ‘angry-ass dog-spirits.’”

“You do that,” England said.

America shivered once or twice and then promptly did as he’d promised himself and forgot it. He hummed and England was silent through the rest of the bumpy hour back to Rachel. Every now and then America checked to see if he had a cell signal, which he didn’t.

Once they hit smooth pavement road, England seemed to perk up. They followed the deputies into a gravel lot not far from the Ale-E-Inn, then parked and followed them into a little-bitty trailer that was grimy, white metal on the outside and cluttered on the inside with papers and a couple of desks and a computer monitor.

Jones sat at one of the desks while the younger deputy stood outside.

“You two hang loose while I run your IDs. I don’t need to cuff you, do I?” Jones asked.

“No, sir,” America said earnestly. England shuddered and sat.

America checked his cell again, his cell which still showed no signal. Well, he knew where to go to get away from it all, that was for sure. After a few minutes during which he could hear the modem on Jones’s computer firing up and transferring information with beeps and clicks, Jones said, “Hmm. That’s weird.”

America looked at him and tried to smile disingenuously.

“You--” Jones pointed at England-- “have diplomatic… well, anyway, and you, Mister Firth-- when I sent your info, I got a weird reply I ain’t ever seen before. Just says ‘DO NOT HOLD.’ Can you hear the all caps in my voice? Who the hell are you guys?”

America turned up the reassurance-level on his smile. “Just…. guys. On vacation.”

“Uh-huh,” Jones said, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t say I’m not sorry I don’t have to take you to lockup. I got better things to do today. Get on outta here.”

Before America could thank him as profusely as he’d planned, England quirked an eyebrow at him. “Will we make it?”

“Uh,” America said, trying to remember what Pookie’s gas gauge had last read.

“I got a gas can out back. I can give you a couple gallons, enough to get you to Ash Springs, if you promise me to just leave. And to wise up, boy,” he said to America.

“I’m willing to pay for that,” England said, pulling out his wallet.

The gas got them to the convenience store in Ash Springs. America bought sunburn lotion and wondered if a nice, gentle, but sexy rubdown might not be just the thing to get England in the best mood possible, but England waved it off until later. He stood in front of Pookie’s driver’s-side door and held out his hand.

“I’m driving,” he said. He made gimme motions with his fingers.

America handed over the keys, trying not to look too reluctant. “You know we drive on the right side of the road here, right?”

“I know what side of the road to drive on,” England told him as he climbed into the driver’s seat with a wince.

America got in and England proceeded to demonstrate that he did not, in fact, know which side of the road to drive on, because he spent half the drive back to Las Vegas in the left lane, passing every car they came upon. America hadn’t even known that Pookie could reach some of the speeds that England gunned her to, but England had such a crazy smile on his face as he drove that America didn’t want to say anything to break the mood or, truthfully, to distract him as he wove back and forth and dodged semis and--

America closed his eyes and, on the rare occasions that he opened them to try to admire the scenery, he whimpered very quietly.

***

England got them as quickly as he could back to their hotel, cursing at the increased traffic in town, and tossed the keys at the valet. He left America behind to get whatever he wanted out of the car and to tip the valet-- waste of money, in his personal opinion-- and headed for their room. He was going to sleep, and he was going to do it as soon as possible. He might then order some tea and then sleep some more.

America caught up with him when he was waiting for the lift. He had a double-armful of unspeakably grimy tee-shirts and a question in his eyes.

“Still tired,” England told him.

“Gotcha,” America said. Once they were in their room, America dropped the tee-shirts into a pile on the floor. England fell face-forward onto the bed. He didn’t even remove his shoes or his filthy clothing. His pillow smelled freshly laundered and like fabric softener but not a bit like dust, which was absolutely brilliant, in his opinion.

He was just drifting off when he felt a poke in his shoulder. “I’m gonna shower and, uh, make some phone calls,” America said. “Want to join me?”

“On the phone or in the shower?” England mumbled.

“Duh,” America said with an eye-roll in his voice.

England considered the offer for a moment. Or two. And decided to stick with his original plan. “Pardon me. I’m just going to lie here for a few minutes,” he said.

He heard America say okeydoke and then heard the sound of running water and then the next thing he knew, he was being poked again. “Your turn,” America said.

England rolled his head to the side. America was redressed and fresh-looking and damp, and England felt a brief rush of deja-vu. Their adventure had left him feeling like he had the same hangover he’d battled the previous morning.

He considered moving versus not-moving. Eventually he decided that he was probably a bit rank and if he did not bathe soon, it would only ruin the utter freshness of his nice, soft bed.

“Fine. Get tea,” he grumbled, and rolled off the bed. After a moment or two, he added, “Please.”

“Sure thing,” America said, then headed out the door with his mobile pressed to his ear.

England ran a shower that was just cool enough to ease the burn on his backside. When he was finished rubbing grime and bodily fluids off his limbs and out of his crevasses, he felt much better. In fact, in the misty mirror he looked nearly normal, if a little on the pink side, and perhaps pale around the eyes. He wrapped a towel around his waist and exited the bathroom to see that America had returned.

America was holding a Styrofoam cup and a teabag. He was also grinning so widely his lips might crack, and bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn’t contain whatever excitement he was feeling.

England was instantly suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“Here’s your tea,” America said in an overly bright voice, ignoring England’s question. He set the cup and teabag onto a side-table and ran over to rummage in his pile of shirts. His hair had mostly dried and his ridiculous hair-curl was bouncing as if it, too, was excited. “You still look burned! Why don’t I put some of this nice lotion on you--”

“What’s going on?” England repeated.

“Nothing! Ha ha!” America straightened, holding the bottle of green, gooey-looking stuff. He waved it and grinned disingenuously, an expression England knew that America had quite consciously perfected.

Still, America had lovely hands, and personified flesh was weak. A rubdown might feel quite nice.

“I accept your prevarication-- for the moment,” England said. He fell face-forward onto his bed again, arms outflung. “Be gentle, mind.”

He heard the plastic snap of the bottle-cap opening, and a squelchy noise. Then he felt America’s fingers, dabbing something-- “Cold! Cold, you bastard.”

“Should feel good,” America said. “Your burn doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did. But you still have raccoon eyes.”

“Sod off.”

“Ha ha. Just relax.”

England did relax and discovered that America was right: it did feel good. The gel soothed the burn and where his skin had been hot now felt cool. America’s fingertips drew gentle swirls on his skin, over and around his shoulder-blades, then trailed down into the small of his back and lightly over the curve of his arse, just under the edge of his towel.

“I made some really cool lunch plans,” America mentioned, almost offhandedly.

“Not a bloody chance,” England murmured.

“Mm-hmm,” America said, and distracted him by pressing the cool gel flat with his palms and running his hands up and down his sides, then trailing fingertips back to his shoulders.

England pictured America’s fingers doing that, and then pictured them laced with his own fingers last night as they’d made-- being stranded bearable. England realized that his face wasn’t the only thing pressing into the bed-- he was working on an erection. All the sensation was just so pleasant: his back felt cool but his belly pulsed with slow heat.

He moaned a little when America stopped, then felt the mattress dip and shift as America climbed on.

“Mwah,” America said into England’s nape. England felt the heat of America’s breath, puffing against the back of his head as something sifted through his hair.

“What are you doing?” England mumbled into the bedspread.

“Your hair smells so good! Lots better than it did this morning.”

“I should hope so,” England said. He felt soft touches along the very tops of his shoulders, and then little wet swirls that sent his heart-rate soaring. It felt like America was licking him.

He was utterly weak: it took next to nothing to work him up into a state of high arousal, anymore. It was as if his body and soul had stored up every lonely moment of every century and were greedy to make up for lost time.

They hadn’t had nearly enough sex on a bed this trip. In fact, none. England thought perhaps they should rectify that. His limbs were languorous and resisted movement, but if he could work up the energy to roll over, perhaps America could just climb on…

“Why don’tcha turn over,” America whispered, as if reading England’s mind.

England flipped over under the bridge of America’s body and made his prurient intentions known by grabbing America by the neck-- slightly damp and all warm-- and pulled his face down for a kiss-- he tasted like toothpaste. Sweat and toothpaste and apple pie and stars and stripes and everything, the endearing bastard…

He’d worked his hands inside America’s shirt and was groping his clean, glorious skin when America pried himself free of England’s prurient grip. He propped himself out of reach again, grinning like a fool.

“Sorry, ha ha. But you know I still owe you a blow-job, right?”

“Oh, God.” England’s toes tried to curl inside his feet at the mere reminder of it. “Why, yes. I do seem to remember that, now you mention it,” he choked out.

“Because you win at picking out tattoos. How punk,” America said. Still wearing the same saucy smile, he stuck his hand inside the towel covering England’s lower half and retrieved England’s cock in a nice, firm grip, lovely fingers stroking, lovely…

“Now you’re-- ah-- patronizing me,” England said as America pushed at the skin at the tip of his cock. “But if you keep doing that, I’ll forgive you.”

“Or something like it?”

“Indeed.” England found himself transfixed, his whole world centering on America’s fingers, and the way America was grinning like an idiot but staring at him so fixedly. England roused his hand but America guessed what he was planning and did it first: he pulled off his own spectacles and tossed them onto the side-table.

“I know you hate these, or something,” America said.

England caressed America’s face and slipped his thumb into America’s mouth, testing his straight teeth and his hot, slippery tongue. The anticipation of having America’s mouth around his cock would surely outstrip the act itself. “Not so. I just prefer what is underneath them.”

“Oh.” America’s silly grin faded a little. His eyes were intent and searching. “You look the same, too, you know,” he said, in a wondering sort of voice.

England shouldn’t have known what America was talking about, but he did. “Yes.”

“I never thought-- I guess I’m pretty lucky things turned out the way-- well, anyway.”

They both had trouble speaking through the wall of idiocy they lived behind. Still, they spoke the same language in more ways than one and England understood the feeling behind America’s words.

“Yes,” he said again.

“Anyway,” America said again, and regained his smirk before he kissed England’s chin, and then his breastbone, and then scrambled back on his hands and knees to puff hot breaths over England’s cock, already over-sensitized from all the stroking and the suffocating unspoken history and shared affection.

“Oh, God,” England said again, when America wrapped his lips around his cock and laughed, or snorted, or choked, or something. After a moment or two he seemed to sort out his position and propped his hands on the bed. He offered a few test licks and sucks, and England had to force himself to dig his fingers into the bedcovers rather than America’s scalp; the twat was fussing around so. Still, he’d certainly improved his technique, since the first time--

“Ouchmmph,” America said. It seemed England had mistaken the back of one of America’s hands for the bedcovers.

“Ah-- pardon,” England sighed, retrieving his fingernails from America’s skin. He shuddered and ached from the sudden loss of touch, everywhere.

“S’okay. How’s this?” America shifted again and used his fingers, lovely fingers, to return the touch, to stroke what he couldn’t swallow. His breath was hot on England’s hot-cold skin--

England simply breathed in reply. That was all he could hear, his own breaths and his own heart pounding and America’s little mmms of concentration. He wanted to arch his arse off the bed but didn’t, just lay still, and couldn’t complain; it was a gift, surely-- his cock, flushed and rigid, and America’s sheened, pink face and gleaming lips moving around it. Dear heavens.

All was soft under his fingers and hot around his cock and all his blood rushed to his belly and swirled and almost before he knew he was going to, he climaxed, hard. America made a choking noise and it was a few pulsing moments before England realized the softness under his fingers was America’s fair hair. He was holding onto it rather roughly. He let go and America, good lad, swallowed his spend, then eased his mouth gently off England’s flesh. He set his chin on England’s belly and looked up at him.

It was humiliating how long he’d lasted, which was to say, not at all. But America looked so smugly pleased with himself, still pink and shining.

“What did you say?” America asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Did I-- ah-- say something?” England mumbled. It had all gone rather blurry there, at the end…

“Oh, maybe not. So how about lunch?”

England laughed, painfully, and swatted America’s ear. “Good, fine,” he said, and breathed while the blood returned to his limbs. “Though didn’t I say that you always try and tell me--”

“It’s a really awesome suggestion, this time,” America said.

“Twat,” England told him. He sat up and adjusted his towel back around his nethers, ridiculous gesture though it was.

“Ha ha. You’ll love it, I promise. You should get dressed, though!” America crawled off the bed backwards. He winced when he stood, and England could clearly see the erection swelling a lump into the front of his trousers.

“That looks painful,” England said, pointing at the obvious.

America waved it off. “I’ll be okay. Go ahead and get dressed! I’ll just go whack off in the bathroom or something.”

England sighed. Then he very calmly swung his legs off the bed and stood. When America dared to look relieved, England tackled him.

“Whoomph,” America said, when England shoved his back against the wall, and then “oh!” when England roughly unbuttoned his trousers and shoved his hand inside. England’s hand was quick and ungentle and America gave England’s shoulders a half-hearted push.

“You don’t-- that wasn’t part of the bet.” America was huffing already, his hips pushing him into England’s hand even as he said it.

“I just like to watch, lad,” England told him, and leaned forward until his tongue was in America’s ear Still he stroked the dry flesh of America’s cock, which was getting slicker from excitement and sweat.

“Oh,” America breathed after a few moments. England squeezed his fingers more tightly as he jerked his hand and licked the inside of America’s ear until he was moaning and clutching England’s shoulders. After a couple of minutes America’s breath grew hitched and ragged.

England slid his tongue across America’s cheek, leaving a shiny trail over his already-shining skin, and propped their foreheads together. That way he could watch all the little things America did when he was about to climax, like the way his eyes went rather unfocused and his mouth went slack…

“Hah. Hah!” America laughed, or moaned, and England felt the sticky slide of semen gumming up his fingers. He was suitably gentle when he let go and gave America a quick kiss on the lips.

“Now I’ll get dressed,” he said, and was quite calm as he walked away to kneel by his suitcase. It was just the way they did things.

America definitely laughed after that. “So outta control,” he said.

“How posh is the demned lunch?” England asked, hoping it was not too posh as he noted the sad, wrinkled state of his good trousers.

“Uh. Casual.”

“Good,” England said, as America went to the bathroom to clean up.

By the time they’d both wiped all evidence of sexual activity off themselves and were fully dressed, or re-dressed as the case may have been, America was adjuring England to hurry, hurry, hurry!

On the way to wherever they were going, America would not answer any of England’s questions, only say “it’s a surprise” to every query. They went down the lift and into the casino, then, instead of going outside, America led them through a door marked “PRIVATE” into a back hallway of the hotel. Then they took a service lift to the roof, and outside was--

“Good God,” England finally said, when he saw-- and heard-- the helicopter. The American military helicopter. It was a newer version of the Boeing AH-64D Apache Longbow, from the looks of it.

“Isn’t it cool?” America said as a uniformed private ushered them into seats. The inside was similar to the Longbows England had seen in Iraq but modified, with some of the insides rearranged to provide passenger space.

“Is this what you wanted me to see?” England sniffed as he strapped in, no matter that he was slightly impressed by what was a very black and very sleek helicopter. “Because it had better be able to travel through time, or something, all the fuss you were making.”

“This is only the ride,” America grinned as the private shut the door and the mad, dangerous whup-whir sound of the blades was first drowned out and then increased as the copter became airborne.

England watched out the tinted window as they flew, at a very high speed, over the giant hotels of the Las Vegas Strip, then over the cookie-cutter sprawl of this ridiculous city in the desert, and then out and over the desert itself. From up high the terrain looked much more flat than England knew, from personal experience, that it was; all brown with only slim, noontime shadows demarking the edges of canyons or mountain ridges.

Looking down into such wide brown was like looking up into the huge sky: wondrous and vast. If only the helicopter did not crash-- both of their prior attempts to visit America’s damned desert military base had been cursed. Perhaps the third time, as they said, would be the charm.

“Can you guess where we’re going?” America asked him, making an attempt to look sly.

“I have an idea,” England said.

“Aww.” America looked thwarted, then hopeful once more.

“The place we tried to get to-- in an almost spectacularly unsuccessful way-- yesterday?”

“Well, shit.” As ever, though, America was not downcast for long. “Never give up, is my motto.”

“Clearly.” England gave America a small smile to offset the dryness of his tone. He also prudently did not mention WMDs or anything of the sort. These people were mad paranoiacs, after all.

They landed a short time later. The ride had been so brief, in fact, that England wondered why they hadn’t tried this method of transport in the first place. They were whisked into a grey-tin building that looked like a much-larger version of the huts in Rachel on the outside, but were huge and full of very high-tech security on the inside. Uniformed men, most of them middle-aged and very hard-looking, greeted them with little ceremony and a great deal of respectful attention: America must have made some phone calls to some very high places.

They saw planes. Very many planes. Inside and outside. Some England had seen before, and many he hadn’t. The most fascinating ones were inside and well-guarded; England was told he’d promptly have to forget them (though he certainly wouldn’t). He hummed interest at all he was shown, partially because of the planes but mostly because America was so visibly excited to be here.

England raised his eyebrows at some ultra-secured doors with strange markings on them, but America whisked him past those.

“You won’t care about that stuff. Ha ha,” America told him, and England agreed that he probably wouldn’t.

Thankfully, they saw no-one that looked like America’s horrible grey companion Tony. England was just starting to feel peckish, and to wonder when the lunch part was going to occur, when America dragged him outdoors once more.

“Now for something cool-- and lunch!”

“Nothing is cool here,” England said. The dirt and concrete they crossed reflected the ever-present sun back onto them, until England was feeling near-baked and gave silent thanks for his sunscreen and slimy, green burn-lotion.

“You know what I mean,” America said. England followed him into another mildly air-conditioned hangar, this one containing what looked like an old C54 Skymaster like they’d used in the 50s and 60s. If a C54 Skymaster had been rebuilt, refurbished and had its landing gear removed.

“This was used in Air Force One,” America said. “Isn’t that neat?”

“Ah,” England said. He’d seen Air Force One planes, many times, in many varieties.

They ascended a metal ramp to the plane’s door. “Are you ready for this? Ha ha!”

“Yes, yes--”

America opened the door onto a… pub? A miniature English pub?

“What in bloody…?” England saw an old, gleaming, wooden bar like hundreds of old wooden bars he’d seen in his own cities, complete with Union Jack on the paneled wall behind it. There were brass taps and a battered dartboard and a telly and a table and--

“What is this?” he asked, sure the bafflement was clear in his voice.

“Isn’t it cool? I guess an old double-U-double-U-two pilot-- one of your RAF boys-- was saved by one of mine, gave his life--” America paused to give a brief air salute. “Anyway, he owned a bar-- pub-- and when he died, he gave everything in it to the Air Force, who had it in storage for awhile ‘cause they didn’t know what to do with it. Finally they installed it on here, for the boss and his visiting dignitaries.”

England goggled. “That’s so ridiculous it’s… extraordinary.” England touched the tables, smelled the old fish-and-chips grease, the ancient ale.

“Right? But it was never used for the boss or his buddies. So the boys here have it. Personally, I thought it was super-cool, but as you know, we can be the place and the people but we can’t make the final decisions. We just become them.”

“True,” England said, and for some reason this bit of rare, audible insight from America made his heart ache. They were so alike in many ways.

England walked over to look at an old, wooden record-player behind the bar. It was not plugged in, but beneath it sat a very modern-looking, multi-disc CD player. America joined him behind the bar and pushed the power button on the CD player. Music started blaring, almost killing the atmosphere with its non-Britishness. It was something American; in fact, it was one of the songs America had been singing yesterday. She was an American girl.

Déjà vu yet again. England rubbed his finger along one of the brass taps.

“Does this-- well, fuck me blind,” he exclaimed when beer, real beer, foamed out of the tap. England stared at America, and smiled until his teeth hurt. “Now I’m truly impressed.”

America handed him one of the Queen’s own pint-glasses. “There are only military rations for lunch, I’m afraid. But the beer is real.”

“No, no. I’m impressed. It’s astonishingly silly, but astonishing nonetheless. You’ve managed it.” England filled two pint glasses, one for each of them. He looked at America’s proud grin and thought about how he’d show his gratitude for it later. He’d make love to him until he couldn’t sit, once they were alone again in their room. At last.

“Yay! At last.” America took his pint and they clinked them together. “Even with just MREs for lunch?”

“A pint of beer, an MRE, and thou, Mister Firth,” England said, and drank.

END.

Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit-- I beg for them, I live for them! All appreciated. :)

Notes: I know nothing about planes or helicopters-- the ones I mentioned were courtesy of Google. And there really is a legend of ghost dogs in the NV desert, poor things. You can read the legend here: http://www.legendsofamerica.com/NV-Eldorado4.html.

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