Saddle Bum- Back in the Saddle Again

[kokoro2]

Title: Saddle Bum
Pairings: USUK
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, minor violence
Summary: Somehow England has landed in America's Wild West, but finds it's not as fun as the movies make it seem.
This chapter: Drinking, card games, and brawls.


Horses were just never fast enough. As America surged out into the wilderness on his trusty stead, he vowed he would invent some device like a carriage that was faster than a horse. He kicked the sides of the horse, urging it to go faster.

The driver of the coach had said that it was the men from before that had tried to attack England. He claimed that the men had beaten up the driver, tossing him around their circle as he feebly tried to defend himself. They pulled England from the carriage and then sent the driver and the carriage back towards town. America was slightly worried for the man, but he seemed to have only suffered a few injuries. So it would be better for the man to be in the hands of a doctor than for America to hover over him in worry.

Shortly, the ridge where the carriage had been pulled over came into view. With a final kick to the side of the horse, America urged the horse on, hoping that England wasn't dead. He briefly recalled that Miss Emily had warned him it was possibly a trap set up by the men to attack America, but that wasn't important right now.

"Stupid, stupid England!" America grumbled under his breath. "And he calls me the dumb one! Tch! C'mon Ace, faster!"

He steered his horse to the hills where he could hide and overlook the situation before jumping in. He hoped if they had hurt England he was unconscious so it would be easier to handle everything without the English country interfering. Then again, he had no idea what awaited him.

Ace was pulled to a halt, and America jumped from his saddle. He crouched low, his gun at the ready, as he crept closer to a boulder. He would peer over the side to survey the area, and then attack if he saw an opening. He saw the men and they looked to be distracted. All were sitting on the ground in a circle and had their heads down.

America wasted no time. He jumped over the rock with his gun out and yelled, but he stopped when he saw England sitting calmly on a rock looking bored. He stood up at seeing America.

"So, you've finally arrived."

America stopped, lowering his guns. He looked at the men, only now that he was closer he could see they were all bound and gagged and were unconscious. "What? What happened here?"

"I detained them," England replied. "And then, I knew you'd be along, so I waited for you to return."

"But…" America turned to look at the other country. "You don't have a gun or nothin'!"

"Or anything, Alfred. Really." England walked past him and tapped him on the nose. "Your grammar is slowly slipping away the longer you're out under the sun. Atrocious."

England continued to walk up the hill where he stopped to look at the horse. He ran a hand along its muzzle. The horse responded well to him, turning into his touches and keeping still so that England could run his fingers through his mane.

"What a wonderful steed," he commented.

America holstered his gun and seethed. "Ace don't take kindly to strangers."

"He appears to like me just fine." England smiled at him, and America turned away.

He kicked at the foot of one of the men. "All right, get up. Come on, you're all under arrest."

The men dragged their feet as they were all shoved towards the horse. England stood waiting, watching as America tied them with a rope around their wrists, and then he held onto it so he could pull them along. The men were in a straight line, glaring at England. England simply smiled smugly back at them. America mounted his horse, keeping hold of the fugitives.

"Okay, on the horse," America said. England looked confused. "C'mon. I didn't bring a second. I thought you'd be dead or somethin', sos I just brought one. Now get on 'em."

England got up onto the horse with ease, settling right behind America. He wasn't the least bit surprised he could still mount a horse so effortlessly. Ace remained relaxed with the new country sitting on him. The two nations were a little awkward to be so close to each other and in such a curious way. Nevertheless, America clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth twice and pressed his spurs into Ace's side. The horse began to trot out towards the desert, the men following behind.

"They're going to walk?" England asked.

"Of course. You can't expect me to show them mercy after havin' jumped that old man," America replied.

"Oh, yes, how is he?"

"He's right here. Why don't you ask him yourself?" America grinned at his own joke. England sat back with a frown.

He decided to look out at the scenery instead of scold him for his comment. The sky seemed to stretch on for miles, never quite touching the land as it teased the ground with small, fluffy white clouds, untouched by pollution. The ground itself was unforgiving, yet beautiful. It was flat and green, but full of texture, dotted with brown bushes. Then it lifted up into the mountains with snow capped tips. All in all, it was beauty the likes of which couldn't be seen anywhere else in the world.

England took in a deep breath. He wanted to spend the trip like this, not stuffed in a car full of unspoken words, with tense and hurt feelings, and not sure where he was in his relationship with America anymore. Of course, sitting on the backside of a horse with a younger version of his boyfriend after having been ambushed by five men wasn't exactly ideal either, but it all felt relaxing.

For the briefest of moments, England recalled how he fell in love with America in the first place.America slammed the iron bar jail door closed and then locked it. He looked at the five men carefully, making sure he hadn't missed any concealed weapon, before he turned and headed for the front room. They had been unmasked, and England could clearly see all of them now. They were relatively young men, the eldest being in his early thirties. The chiseled faced man stood up and rushed the bars, shaking them as he spat at England.

"We'll get you, Limey!"

England was leaning against the wooden door frame with his arms crossed. He didn't look impressed. "I'd love to see you try."

"Don't talk to 'em," America said, passing England by. He pulled him into the other room, and then shut the door between the front room and the jail cells. He moved to the tiny stove in the far corner and lit up a makeshift cigarette.

England watched quietly. He should have known America would smoke when young, especially in this era. If he thought to scold him for it, it dried on his tongue given that he did for many years, and sometimes still snuck in a fag here and there when the stress got to him too much. Instead he moved to sit at a chair by a desk.

The jailhouse was simple. Made of wood, four walls, two desks, a stove, and a message board with ads for wanted men in the country. America hung his hat on a crude knob jutting out of the wood and took a seat at the other desk, his feet up on the table. He smoked in silence. England looked out the window to watch as the town passed them by.

Then, "So how do I get home now?"

America inhaled, and leaned his head back to exhale the smoke. "There's another carriage comin' at the end of the month. You'll have to wait 'till then."

"Is there a town nearby that has a train station?" England asked. He continued to look out the window.

"Not fer a good few miles, no." America's accent was making England's ear twitch in a bad way. "Until then, I guess yer stuck here."

England turned to look over at America. "So then, what do you do for fun around here?"

America put his cigarette out and stood. He strode over towards a small safe that sat on the floor near the desk England was at. He opened it without turning the lock and pulled out a bottle of nearly-empty whiskey. He popped the top and put it on the table.

"Drink."

"That's…that's it?" England eyed the bottle warily. He thought of last night and just how dry the alcohol had been. It hadn't burned, it just suffocated him and then left a bad after taste that still lingered on his tongue. "Is there anything that doesn't involve drinking yourself into a stupor?"

America grabbed the bottle, dipped his head back, and took a long swig of the whiskey. England grimaced as he watched. Just thinking back on how it tasted made the English country cringe. How America did it so effortlessly without a care was beyond him. Perhaps that was another reason he was so immune to his fast food in the future.

Just thinking of the America that he had left in the future made England depressed. Not enough to drink, but enough to want to try and figure out some things. Such as why America was so angry with him to the point he almost shot him last night and practically tossed him from his hotel room that morning. He chanced a glance at the American country and saw a glint in his eyes that wasn't always there when he was older.

This younger version was so full of raw and passionate anger. Was it all directed at him? England didn't want to think that America was truly that upset with him. Then again, back during this time England had been rather short tempered with the younger nation as well. Granted their political relationship had begun to rebuild during this time, it had yet to mend personal issues between them. That would require two world wars before they ever became that close again. That and more.

England smiled to himself just thinking of his America. It was enough to garner the attention of the America there. He frowned at seeing England smile so easily. It wasn't like the England he knew should be.

"What'chu smiling about?" he asked sourly.

England caught himself, and his smile vanished quickly. "Nothing."

America hummed, and then he looked out the window. He pursed his lips in thought. "Hey, you ever gone mining?"

"I should say not," England replied. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Dirty, filthy, and highly dangerous."

America cracked a devious smile. He turned fully to face England, beer in hand, and declared that was their activity. "Tomorrow. It's already too late in the day. I reckon you gotta start early in the day."

England's shoulder slumped. He shook his head. "No. I refuse."

"My country, my rules." England's face heated up at hearing the same motto once more. Was everything this young America going to do remind him of his America? Why did he feel so far away when he was right there?

England was hesitant to ask, but he felt it better to do so now than later. He had a month with the lad, so why not get everything out on the table now? "A-America…? How are we?"

"How do ya mean?"

"I mean…how are we fairing? Are you still…angry with me?" England was tugging on his sleeves. He suddenly was much hotter under his collar than he had been a moment ago. America's stare could be felt on the back of his neck. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and along the artery on his throat.

"Of course," America replied at length. "Why wouldn't I be? Ya stabbed me in the back."

England sucked in air through his teeth sharply at this. His back automatically tensed, out of sheer habit. It had been so long since he and America had discussed the Revolutionary War, but the instinctive reaction was still deep in him. However, there was something he had that his past self didn't have- resistance to react. That was what America wanted right then, and he revealed in their spats. Anything to kick England down while he was on unfamiliar turf.

Too bad England was well versed in keeping his tongue by now. Instead of saying anything he grabbed the whiskey and took a drink. America watched with a raised eyebrow. The burning sensation caught him off guard again, and England shot forward in a fit of coughs. America chuckled.

"Can't take it?" England looked at him through the tears prickling his eyes. "It's okay. My stuff is much stronger than your crap back in England, huh? All watered down."

After taking a deep inhale to calm down, England stood to face America. "I can take it just fine. This is not real alcohol. One cannot possibly get drunk or be satisfied through this."

America snorted. He snatched back the whiskey, taking another drink. "Most folks 'round here just wanna get away from their thoughts. This'll help that there real quick. That and a round of Poker."

"How can you possibly play a game of cards when you're so incapacitated?"

Somehow, America's grin grew wider than before. He nodded towards the door. "Why don't I show ya how we do it here in the Wild West?"

England was never one to back down from a challenge, especially from America. However he was nervous that it involved whiskey and card games and angry card players as he so often saw in Western films. What if they accused England of cheating and tried to shoot him where he sat? England wouldn't die, but he'd have to pretend to be so. He had a strong feeling America wouldn't protect him or interfere in any part of the confrontation.

Still, there was an inkling of a thought seeping its way into his mind. How often would he get this kind of opportunity? And if this was a chance to get America to let his guard down finally, then he should take it. There was probably even less of a chance of that happening again for the duration of his stay.

"Show me the way, sheriff."The bar was loud and smoky, but this wasn't anything new to England. Many of his pubs he frequented were a haze of smoke. He glanced around at the wooden room, admiring the crowded tables full of drunken men and card dealing fast hands, all bustling for one more drink or one more failed attempted to garner one of the bar maids into their wandering hands. The bartender nodded to America in a knowing way. England could only follow as he was led to the back of the bar, right in front of a large stage. A piano sat to the side of it and a dusty red curtain with a faded golden lace design across the middle. No one was on the stage or at the piano at the moment, so the bar was just full of raucous laughter and drunken talk. They took their seat at a round table and waited for someone to come take their orders.

Almost instantly England recognized this place as where America had taken him shortly because he was pulled backwards in time; shortly before they fought and England broke off their relations. Hadn't he mentioned some fight?

"Hey there, sheriff," said a gruff looking man from behind America. He had black gums and missing teeth, causing England to grimace. And here the world made fun of England for his teeth.

"Hey Flanders," America replied pleasantly. He gestured for the man to take a seat with them. "You havin' much luck?"

Flanders shook his head. "None yet."

"Then this should be a good night for you, huh?"

Flanders was nice for all of his smelly and off-putting appearance. He had a scraggly face with the makings of a long and dirty beard, which helped hide his scars and slightly burned face. He had a slight twitch to his movements, leading England to think he had been in one too many gun fights. At the thought of the weapon, England changed a glance to see the man was, indeed, packing. Then again, who wasn't in this era?

America invited other men to join him and England, the group of Americans all talking easily with each other. England didn't open his mouth for fear of being called out for being English. He knew where America stood in his feelings towards him, but he had no idea about his people. Suddenly, Miss Emily arrived by their side holding a tray of cold beers.

"What'll it be?" she asked cheerfully. England noticed she was wearing far less than she had earlier that day.

"Whiskey," America said. He smirked at England, about to order for him when England jumped at the chance. He couldn't stand one more take of that atrocity America called alcohol.

"Scotch." America frowned.

"You like that stuff?"

England shrugged and gave no reply. The other men had, luckily, missed his accent as they were lighting up a cigarette. They then pulled out money and looked to America expectantly. They were all gearing up to gamble. From seemingly nowhere, America produced a pack of cards and some loose change.

"Will yer Limey friend be joinin' you?" one of the men asked while watching England closely. Apparently one had heard his English accent.

"Hey." America was so loud and sharp he had startled everyone in the near vicinity. One poor maid even dropped a beer glass. America shot the cowboy a terse stare that gave his answer quite clearly. It was only until he began shuffling that everyone felt it safe to breathe again. England was quite caught off guard by this.

"Place your bets," America said, returning to his normal self. He then tossed a few coins to England's side of the table. He knew England had no American cash on him.

"You know how to play?" a man asked England.

The nation smirked, sweeping his cards together. "I've gambled a few times in my day."

Five Whiskies and seven Scotches later, America and England were in a heated battle. Both were far past drunk to know they actually had crap hands, but neither would back down. The other cowboys at the table had already folded, choosing to watch instead. They found the pair's antics much more amusing than the game. As they had played on, the men found America and England to be very similar in their pig-headedness, and their refusal to give in to the other made them lose money faster than America could produce it.

However, after a certain point, the men just let them win. It was rare America ever got this drunk, and even rarer that he lost so much. They considered this English fellow to be their nice little good luck charm for the evening. It didn't help that they had encouraged England to drink more, laughing as it caused him to bicker even more with their sheriff.

Now they waited with baited breath at the end of the hand. Both nations had gone all in.

"Read 'em an' weep, Artie," America declared. He laid his cards on the table with a haughty smirk as he looked at England. The cowboys blew out their cigarette smoke as they began chuckling.

"Sheriff," Flanders started. "A two and a three?"

"Fuck yeah," America said, slightly slurred. England instinctively winced at this. While it was fine to hear America swear in the future after hearing him do so, so often during the war, hearing it come from such an angelic looking boy was another matter completely.

Nevertheless, England grinned confidently. He placed his deck before everyone; the Ace and Queen of Spades. America pouted at seeing this, earning more laughs from the onlookers at the table. England shucked all of his winnings into his wallet. Even if he had no intention of using it again, the feeling he got watching America mourn the loss of his money was gratifying enough.

"Damn, sheriff," Flanders said. "He got ya good."

All the men began laughing, patting England on the shoulders in congratulations. However, this started something with England. He poked America in the chest, sneering at him.

"You're a bloody fool to think a crummy two and three could beat anything!"

America blushed, looking to his shuffling feet. "I thought you were bluffing."

That only made England cockier, and he began laughing at the other nation. "Still a twit! You may have a gun and run your own little form of, whatever, out here, but you're still obtuse!"

A man leaned over to America, whispering, "What's obtuse mean?"

America, now glaring at England, strode forward to grab him. But England stumbled back to avoid him, only to run into a cowboy carrying beer that splashed all over the front of his shirt. England turned around quickly to apologize.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry there, old chap! I didn't see you. Oh my, you're a big boy. How ever did I miss you?"

This only incensed the muscular man more. He dropped his glass and aimed a fist at England's head, only America was faster. He slipped in between the two men and, with reflexes honed over the years of being a gun slinger, he punched the man in the jaw. The man flew into the table behind him, easily breaking the wood. However, this caused the men playing cards at the table to jump up angrily. America cursed as five gun wielding men rushed him with raised fists. And then a brawl broke out in the bar.

America was in the middle of the fray, mainly to protect a very drunken England. The nation had fallen on his butt and having far too difficult a time getting back up. Then, when he was up, he thought it a brilliant idea to pick up a chair and hurl it at a man. Only he missed and hit America instead.

America faltered more out of surprise than pain. He wheeled around, only to get socked in the jaw and fall to the ground. England, having seen this, grabbed another chair and smashed it down on the offender's head.

"Don't you dare hurt him you arsehole!" he shouted. It seemed England had gone from cocky nation to defensive empire in one fell swoop. He fought off anyone that came too close to America; his mind saying he was a little colony again from long ago.

America knew things could get ugly (well, uglier), so he grabbed England around the middle and made for the exit. England thought America was some "heinous fiend" and demanded to be put down, kicking and beating on America's back. There were few sober people out in the streets, so most of this embarrassing scene went unnoticed by anyone other than America.

They stumbled up the steps of the hotel, their boots clunking loudly on the stairs as England suddenly became heavier due to his legs refusing to work. And then he began rambling in America's ear.

"Oh Alfred, such strong arms. So thick. Mm, yes, thick and big. My goodness how big you will grow. Oh Alfred, you smell like gun powder. So sexy."

America all but hurled England onto the bed. His face was a furious shade of red. Frowning, he began taking England's shoes off. England lay there and continued to talk.

"Oh my… It's been so long since I've been attracted to you… Such a young, beautiful face. Ho ho, this sounds so scandalous!"

America huffed in frustration, tossing the last shoe over his shoulder. He moved to squat beside England who had turned to lie on his side. The England nation had a lazy smile on his face and glazed over eyes, yet it was eerie how he looked right through America. He put a hand on America's cheek.

"Stop it," America murmured. "Before you say something you regret."

"The only thing I regret…is putting distance between us." England's words slurred and he couldn't keep focus, but the intent was still there.

America ducked his head, making England's hand slip off. "Ya don't mean that… England you… You hate me… Remember?"

England shook his head. "My dear lad…" His fingers swept through the young nation's bangs. "How wrong you are…"

America stared at England, searching his eyes for truth; but unlike England, America didn't have that innate sense to stare into someone's soul, breaking down past their walls to their very core. And it didn't help that England had slipped his eyes closed and fallen asleep. America was left without concrete feelings- just emptiness.Hoshiko2's cents: Do all the Western stereotypes! :Db