Saddle Bum- It's the Cowboy Life For Me

[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: England takes a step back to review his relationship.


Sunlight flooded England's vision, and briefly he thought he had dreamt up the Wild West, but when he saw a teenaged America garbed in cowboy attire, he knew he was wrong. God, how he wished it had been nothing but fantasy, then he could blame it all on his drinking. The hangover and heaviness to his hear certainly wasn't a dream. Maybe a nightmare.

"G'mornin'!" America exclaimed too cheerfully and too loudly. England groaned, burying his face under his pillow. "Get up, England! We got a big day ahead of us!"

"Doing what…" England's voice was muffled by the pillow, but America managed to hear him nonetheless.

"Minin'!"

"You're already a minor," England said. His face finally peeked out.

America ignored the pun to pull England up to sitting. "C'mon. Git up! Yer wastin' daylight!"

England grumbled at this. His future America often complained loudly if he was woken too early. True, England was an early riser, but not when he had a hangover. He simply pulled the covers back over his head instead.

"Git up, ol' man," America said in a teasing voice.

That did the trick.

England threw the covers off of his head and made sure America could clearly see the stink eye he was giving him. America saw the mess of hair on his head instead and burst into laughter.

"C'mon, there's food downstairs." America headed for the door.

He paused to wait for England, and England got a strange feeling he was being checked out. To avoid any awkward situations, he reached for his shoes only to notice his own body odor. He recoiled back with a wrinkled nose.

"Oh, bloody hell! I'm filthy!"

America laughed again. "We got a nickel shower 'round the corner. I'll take you after you eat some."

England nodded his appreciation. They trekked downstairs and into the hotel's attached restaurant just off of the lobby. A few people mingled around the lobby, not really having much else to do that early morning. The restaurant had a bar counter where a bartender stood cleaning the beer glasses, but the bar wasn't open yet. Nevertheless, America strode up to it to order for them both. Meanwhile, England claimed a table in the far corner.

He rubbed at a bruise on his cheek that he was certain made his skin an ugly discoloration. He groaned, thinking on all of the bad luck he'd had as of late, the worst being this strange time travel. Sadly, because of his constant time with America, he'd had no chance to look into the matter of the situation, which meant he didn't know how to reverse it either. Fairies weren't fond of the desert, so he ruled their interference out. It could be he stepped on some magical time trap, but that needed an immensely powerful spell to remain dormant in this town. Judging by the fact a time trap took its victim back to the exact day it was placed, England knew finding the culprit would probably be near impossible. And he doubted a simple cowboy or saloon girl had laid it. That left him with nothing.

A more pressing question, however, was how would he get home? Time traps, though rare, had happened before to England, and he knew of their tales. He was young and met one of the most amazing mages ever, but when he wandered too close to the mage while he was practicing, he fell into a time trap on accident. Luckily, the mage only set it to a few hours in the past and was able to send England back to his proper time.

England highly doubted his favorite mage could help him now, seeing as he was long since dead. Again, he was left with nothing. There was no possible way he could stay in this era, even if he hid from his past self that was actually back in the UK. That England was the correct one of this time, and he had no idea what America was up to across the ocean.

Thinking of the America back in his time had America slightly worried. He had vanished after such a nasty fight. Was America worried? Was he searching for him? It made England's heart clench painfully in a way he didn't think he'd react seeing as he hadn't worried about America in years. He was mad and hurt, yes, but if he didn't get home, this separation would be permanent and he'd never have a shot at fixing anything with America.

America from this era suddenly arrived, startling England from his thoughts. He was met with a gracious helping of steak, eggs, gravy, and biscuits. It then occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since his arrival two days ago. He barely had time to collect himself before America ushered him onto the carriage yesterday, and when he returned from the robbery, the two indulged themselves in drinking. That would explain how they got drunk so quickly.

England had to reign in his desire to toss aside manners and dive headfirst into the meal. America eyed him, not eating first; probably so he could watch England's reaction. At length, England picked up his fork and slowly started to eat. This cracked up America once more.

"Arthur, you're allowed to drop the act just once. No one is going to tell Europe."

England scoffed at him. "Shows how much you know about me. I care not for Europe's opinion of me."

America chuckled. "How American of you…"

"Don't you dare," England blanched. America laughed once more, and it even brought out a delicate grin on England's face.

This felt nice, like when the couple had first begun dating. It was full of careful touches of what to do, what not to say, where to look, and how to sit without arousing question. They would pause too often and over think every single thing. However, for England, it wasn't the same as before. He wasn't nervous because of his secret crush he had harbored for decades, but rather he didn't want to say something that would upset the time stream or make America suspicious.

So it was interesting to see the young cowboy smiling fondly at England, only to look away, completely flushed. He flustered as he hopped up out of his seat, only to knock the top of his knees into the underside of the table. "Um! I'm gonna check on the guys in jail!"

He rushed to the bar once more, thoroughly confusing England, and then returned with a cup of coffee. "I know you don't like this stuff, but… we don't have tea."

England smiled politely, taking the proffered cup. "Oh, thank you."

And just like that, America was all smiles again. His young face, not yet matured by war and economic hardship, reminded England of colonial times. It was simpler then, much like it was now, where it was perfectly acceptable to lay around all day and fish or tan in the fields. They didn't have to run about and check their e-mails.

England had a sneaky suspicion America was off the grid, and had been for some time judging by how well known he was in the town. Somehow, this only made England smile more. While the coffee looked black and disgusting, England gave it a try. He scowled at the bitter taste. In his peripheral vision he could see America watching him from the doorway. England only hoped he was still smiling.England was used to horses. He loved them and knew them almost as if they were a part of him. However, this was a Mustang. They never seemed to tolerate him well, and England certainly found he couldn't handle the stallion's temperament. Jackson was his name, and while it looked like such a tame creature, all black and beautiful as the sun glistened off of its sleek body, the creature was far from it when England neared him. When he approached it initially, Jackson charged him, pushing England to the stable's fence. He shook his head so his mane flopped about and then he'd neigh angrily just before he ran to the opposite side of the stable.

The other cowboys were of no help, preferring to laugh than offer assistance. They already thought it a joke that an Englishman was attempting to go out and mine with their sheriff. What better way to spend the morning than to watch England fail miserably to get the damn creature over? America was sitting on the top fence with a stick of straw jutting out from his mouth. He looked more annoyed than amused as he watched, but he was just as useful as the cowhands.

Eventually, he jumped down into the stable. For a moment, England thought the nation had given up trying to get him to go, but America just calmly strode to Jackson. He held his hands up and made soft ticking noises, attracting the stallion's attention. Almost instantly the horse became more receptive. He trotted over as if on parade and pushed his snout to America's hand, forcing him to pet the horse. The nation laughed.

He's always had a way with animals, England thought fondly. It was a delight to see the younger America enjoying himself with horses again. It was a pleasantry that his future self grew out of, sadly. England couldn't quite pinpoint when exactly it happened, but one day America was very attached to nature and all of the fauna that inhabited it, and the next he was more focused on expanding his cities and paving over the beautiful countryside, making way for more houses and businesses. Then, suddenly, England realized he used to go on dates with America at the zoos around their countries in the Fifties, but they stopped. When was the last time they'd gone?

"Here," America said. He had brought England back Jackson, but kept a steady hand on the reign in case the horse tried to bolt again. "He said he doesn't like how you dress."

England looked down at his attire. It was out of place given this era's fashion. A T-shirt and jeans were rather off putting. No wonder he had attracted so much attention his first day here. However, it was hard to change clothes given that England had been transported without warning, otherwise he would've grabbed his suitcase.

Huffing in annoyance, England asked, "Well what does the horse suppose I do?"

Long ago, England had agreed to the fact America had an ability to communicate with animals, as long as the younger nation had agreed to England's Sight to see faeries and other magical beings. America never really came into this agreement, but he had let up in his taunts compared to when they were younger. Often. That didn't stop him from looking concerned when England chatted with seemingly nothing.

America grinned hauntingly. "Well, we need to fit ya to American style."

England was slightly horrified.

Half an hour later, and more money from America (making England's debt go up), and England had come out with an outfit he felt could pass for his high taste of fashion. He was now wearing a vest made of high class silk and cotton, a suit jacket, black pants, and a stylish cowboy hat. Secretly, England thought he looked pretty good. And if America's furtive glances were anything to go by, so did the other nation.

Jackson was a lot gentler towards England now. With nothing left to stall them, the duo set off for the mountains. Back in the future, England had felt himself melting from the heat, complaining constantly much to America's chagrin. At least then he had wind blowing in his face from the window being open if America insisted they not waste gas and use the air conditioner.

Now, there wasn't any breeze and the air was stale. England felt close to suffocating. He clutched the reigns for fear that he'd fall out of his saddle if he fainted. America, however, was singing. He was even riding one handed as if to show off.

"I'm a saddle bum. I like to lope along. Whichever way the wind blows, that's where I go. I'm a saddle bum."

England's eyes widened in recognition of the song. America had sung that same song during their trip to Star City. England sat up in his saddle in interest. Was that why America had sung it in the first place, because it reminded him of their trek to the mountains?

"You alive back there?" America called. "Yer so quiet."

England wiped at his brow. "I am a bit parched…"

America looked over his shoulder and nodded at the small container attached to England's hip. "Didja drink it all already?"

"I'm saving it for when we start to mine."

England reclined in his saddle to look up at the incredibly deep blue sky. It was so expansive, almost empty, without even a wisp of a cloud to dot the view. It had been so long since England had seen such an unobstructed view of the sky. Skyscrapers, rain clouds, and pollution fog made it near impossible. But here, it was common to see it all so clearly. No wonder America had left the East to come out West.

England felt a twinge of regret as he recalled having flung an insult at America shortly before he left about his beloved land being ugly. He'd truly been terrible, hadn't he? Seeing the golden hills and snow-capped mountains in all its glory caused England to regret the argument. As the days passed it was all becoming a silly reason to break up with someone he truly did love. Quickly, he became withdrawn into himself.

America continued to sing ahead of him. Thankfully, the song had changed. "Home, home on the range. Where the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day."

"H-hey America, can you not sing?" England asked. He wanted peace for his quickly growing headache and heavy heart.

"Why not?" He pet his horse's mane. "Ace loves when I sing to him." England only sighed heavily in reply. "Okay, then I'll talk!"

And boy could he chatter. England knew that America could talk anyone's ear off, but his past self seemed much better at rambling than his future self was. By the time they had arrived at the mines, England knew the flora and fauna native to the territory, when it became a territory, and the natives that used to live here. Many were still living in various areas of the land, keeping to themselves for the most part.

America personally didn't get involved in any of the natives' affairs. Briefly, England recalled how America rarely talked of the Native Americans, constantly avoiding any acknowledgement about their existence, and skirting the topic of his connection to them and his past. England knew it was such a sore spot given how America had once been quite close to some of those that used to live in the East when he was young.

Luckily they had arrived at their destination and America didn't have to delve into the idea too deeply. England might have been thankful for avoiding that sensitive topic, but he was also nervous about the fact he was now expected to actually mine. He wasn't looking forward to being so dirty and sweaty. He'd just wash for the first time in days, and he didn't want to ruin his new clothes.

America hopped off of his horse and began to unpack their shovels. He had gone back to humming, much to England's dismay. It was so rare in the future to have such peace and quiet; he found he missed it, having become so accustomed to never having silence. When he was a child until his teen years, he never thought there'd be a time that he'd yearn for the sound of wind in the trees as his constant companion. Faintly, he could hear the calling of a falcon, the trickle of a far off river, and the wind whistling up the mountainside through the brush and trees.

"How beautiful," England murmured. He hadn't meant for it to be heard by America, but the nation had. And he smiled in a way that made England freeze.

It looked so familiar. So warm and open and just honest. A cold and unsettling realization struck England like ice water. That was the same smile America had given him when they first dated. It was one he only gave to England; one full of love. No other nation was allowed to see it as, like England, America wasn't too keen on opening himself fully to anyone else but his lover.

And he hadn't smiled at him like that in five years."Fire in the hole!"

America barely gave England any warning before he tossed a lit stick of dynamite into the mining hole where England was still chipping away at a rock. The English nation scrambled away to hide from the blest just before it exploded. It rattled his teeth and shook his bones, briefly reminding him of years past he'd rather not dwell on.

That thought sparked something in him that'd been bugging him since he laid eyes on America. This was 1861. Surely America not only had Texas-his glasses, but he should be starting his Civil War. England knew from experience that America had been heavily involved throughout the duration of the war. Had his appearance in the past somehow altered this? No, America in the future had recalled their time together here, so it wasn't possible. Was it? It was times like these England strongly wished he'd paid closer attention to Doctor Who.

"Yee haw, sheriff!" Startled, the two nations turned to see Flanders and a small group of old miners come from around a hill behind them. Their haul of silver was considerably smaller than America's. Then again, they didn't have the advantage of being the country and having an innate knowledge of the land.

"Flanders!" America rushed to greet his friend.

"I see you're having better luck here than at the card table."

America flushed, but waved it off. "It was fun last night, no matter what happened. That's the real prize."

"And today's prize?" Flanders looked over America's shoulder at the mine shaft, but then they flickered to England. The Englishman was surprised, but Flanders was so quick about it, it could have easily been seen as an accident; his eyes happened to linger just a little too long.

"Found a real nice vein," America replied. He nodded back at England. "He's never known what it's like to go mining."

Again, Flanders' eyes flashed to England, and hovered just long enough for England to feel uncomfortable by it. However, he refused to shiver or look away. He didn't want the man to know he'd caught his quick stare.

"Well it's almost sun down," Flanders said, returning his attention back to America. "Would you like to eat with us?"

"That's mighty kind of you!" America slapped a hand on his back. "Beans?"

"My specialty, sheriff!" an old man in the group said with a cackle.

England deflated at hearing this. He abhorred beans. To him, the only thing worse was escargot. On the upside, it made for a promising means to get out of the dark mines and sit down for a change, despite how unappealing the meal was.

The men set up camp by dumping their bags in a small clearing and then starting a fire. America helped by collecting some firewood. England stayed out of the way, knowing full well America wouldn't let him near the food to cook, and tended to the horses. It was the best he could do, really. He knew how to cook over an open flame, that sort of knowledge that'd been with you the majority of your life didn't just go away when the microwave was invented, but cooking beans was beyond him; mainly because he never took the time to want to know how to cook beans.

For a good while it was just the sound of the fire crackling, the breeze through the trees, and the silence of the desert pressing in on them from all sides, but not to suffocate them. Just to let them know they were being enveloped in this warm cocoon of the desert night. England sat off to the side of the circle of Americans to watch the sunset seemingly engulf the land, and the ground became a liquid gold with mountains rising out of it majestically to challenge the pink and purple sky.

Sighing, England wondered how long America had to savor this before he was ripped away to the cities, and finally understood why he'd brought him out to such an unforgiving countryside. Despite the heat, strange creatures, and unusual culture, England knew this is where America was himself. He didn't have to worry about the mail or orders, he could just enjoy the land as he once did when he was a colony; carefree and able to live off of the land. He might not have smiled truly for years and their relationship had dwindled into nothing more than a shame of love, but America had tried.

His heart was here, where the sky kissed the earth.

"I got a song for ya'll," an old man named McGraw said. He had brought along an old guitar that had seen better days. All night he'd play random tunes as he strummed along the strings. "Ya'll ever hear 'bout Pecos Bill?"

The Americans nodded as they ate their beans, but England frowned and shook his head, "I'm afraid I don't know the chap."

"He's an American super hero," McGraw replied with a toothless smile. England couldn't help but grimace at his black gums, no doubt destroyed over the years from chewing tobacco. "He's done some amazin' things."

"He ain't real," America mumbled. Curiously, he was red to his ears and heavily focused on his overcooked beans.

"Still, he's somethin' else! I'll show ya!"

McGraw then began to play a fast tune, his fingers flying across the strings. "Pecos Bill was quite a cowboy down in Texas. Why he's the Western super man to say the least. He was the roughest, toughest critter, never known to be a quitter, 'cause he never had no fear of man or beast. Once there was a drought that spread all over Texas. So to sunny California he did go. 'Though the gag is kinda corny he brought rainy from Californ-y, that's the way we got the Gulf of Mexico. Now once a band of rustlers stole a herd of cattle, but they didn't know the herd they stole was Bill's. And when he caught them crooked villains, Pecos knocked out all them fillings. That's the reason why there's gold in them thar hills. Pecos lost his way while traveling through the desert. It was ninety miles across the burning sand. He knew he'd never reach the border if he didn't get some water, so he got a stick and dug the Rio Grande. So yipe kae yea, fer the toughest critter West of the Alamo! That's Pecos!"

The men, save for America, all cheered in nationalistic pride, while England just clapped politely. Who knew super heroes went so far back in America's past, he thought. That might explain his obsession with the idea.

"I got a song," America said suddenly. He reached over and grabbed for the guitar.

"You can play?" England asked, feigning ignorance. He knew quite well America could play, but he only found out when the nation had serenaded him back during the Forties and Fifties. It's been years since England's heard him play. His voice might not be ideal, but his talent on the guitar was something to behold.

America cracked a nervous smile before playing. "Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. Don't fence me in. Let me ride through the wide, open country that I love. Don't fence me in. Let me be by myself in the evening breeze, listen to the murmur of the cotton wood trees. Send me off forever, but I ask you please, don't fence me in. Oh don't fence me in. Papa, don't you fence me in…"

When he stopped, England felt a dagger pierce his heart almost like that of a bayonet. And it was raining. And America was right there, but he couldn't reach. England was above this by now. For him it was well over two hundred years since the Revolution, but not for America. With the added weight of the War of 1812 spilling fresh blood between them and the tension from the Civil War starting to crack, it was no wonder America was stretched as tight as a taut rubber band. England had once been similar, but now he should be over it, however that song had struck a sensitive chord. It had been a deliberate way to rile England up.

It then occurred to England that perhaps that was all America needed; someone to vent at. He had the main target to finally spew his feelings out, and England had simply ignored him. He was expected to get upset and be hurt and yell back, and in not doing so, England had created much more confusion and pain in America. He hadn't been given that closure on the issue, leaving him angrier than before. It was like a person starting a fight just to start a fight.

So England complied. He was hurt by America's words, so it wasn't a complete act; however he did up the ante a bit in his acting to make America believe he was more upset than he really was. England left the camp site and headed deep into the woods. America followed along as England wandered out until they were far from ear shot. They were at the edge of a dark cliff surrounded by trees, so there was less chance of the men overhearing them.

England had his back to America, but turned to face him with tears in his eyes. It was from frustration of everything weighing on his shoulders and the overwhelming desire to go home. He was tired of this America. There was so much he wanted to say to his America now.

"You've got quite a lot of nerve," England hissed.

America's face remained stoic. "Like you, showin' up and ruinin' everything? I know why you're here."

England bristled at this. "I didn't even want to come!"

"Don't lie! My boss sent you, didn't he? He just can't wait for me to get back! I told him I just needed time!"

"Time?" England tilted his head in thought for a moment, trying to arrange in his mind what America could possibly be getting at. "What do you mean…? Time out here? From…the war? I heard there's one starting soon. Are you…hiding from it?"

"YES!" America exploded in rage. He began pacing and England watching his hands, wary of if they rested on his guns still strapped to his waist. "So I'm yella! Is it so wrong I jus' want a break before I go back East? I already lost Texas! If I go back I'll be jus' like one of them-one of you Europeans!"

"You go back because that's your responsibility. You wanted to be a nation, this is your prize. You have to deal with the consequences."

"Like how you dealt with me?"

England sighed in agitation and sheer exhaustion of this overused situation. "Come off it, America! Why won't you just be a nation and get over it? If anyone is to be mad, it's me! I lost, not you! Remember? You gained everything and I was left with France laughing at me!"

"You burnt my capital!"

"You rebuilt it!" England flapped his hands in the air with another sigh, and then sat on a boulder behind him. "Honestly, this is no way a nation should act if he's to be taken seriously be the Europeans."

America suddenly chuckled, and his entire demeanor changed. "I don't want their approval. I've never cared what anyone says about me."

"This much is clear. Otherwise you wouldn't be such a bloody prat!"

It was no different from now and the future. They still tossed spiteful words back and forth as if it were a game. How sad to know they'd barely moved together in all this time. America was still in the mindset that it was him and only him in this vast world, while England still fought the world. Where did that leave room for love in their heart?

It seemed America was gearing up for another confrontation when his shoulders dropped as if all the fight slipped out of him. England watched him curiously. He had learned quickly to not expect anything with this America. His future self was all too predictable; he'd yell, pout, go off to eat and play video games, and either seek England out to apologize, or he'd wait for England to do so. It was strange to see this America relent so easily.

"I hate that Pecos Bill song," he said lowly.

"Why?"

"Because it's a lie." America sighed, almost dejectedly. "It's about me."

England was only mildly surprised by this. The song was silly, so it made sense America would write up such exaggerated lyrics about himself. "Then why did you write them?"

"I didn't." America rubbed his nose where his glasses should be, but this only made him angrier. He quickly dropped his hand to his side, forming it into a tight fist. "Someone did it back when I was at the Alamo. Called me Davy Crockett, and I told 'em to stop. So they called me Pecos Bill. They thought I was somethin' else the way I fought."

"I didn't know you were at the Alamo," England whispered. It wasn't a lie. In all the years he knew America such an event had never been mentioned.

America looked at the ground pensively. "I wish I could forget it, but people just want to make me remember… That's why I'm out here, to save whatever sanity I have left. I might…never be the same after this…"

England could sympathize. He'd had a few civil wars himself. After each one he always had a slightly new aspect to his personality. He knew that after this war America would emerge stronger, but so unstable with himself and the world that he'd isolate himself until his crash in the Twenties. His tiny peek out into the world theater during the First World War wasn't enough to make his appearance a permanent one; not yet anyways. It was no small wonder he'd run to his frontier to salvage the last of his freedom.

Nevertheless he had to face his problems head on. He did in the future, for the most part, so now was a good time to start learning to deal with his pain.

Signing, England softened his tone with the younger nation and used his human name as a more intimate meaning. "Alfred, I understand it'll be hard. By God, I've faced enough civil outbreaks to last a lifetime of most nations. However, running from your problems will only prolong the situation. Clinging to old grudges won't help either."

"You do it too," America started.

England held up a hand to stop him. "And I am working on this, but as I've said before it was me who lost everything. It will take some time before I can resolve this between us."

America lifted his head. "You lost everything…?"

Oh, brilliant, England thought. Might as well dig yourself deeper now that you're in this hole you created.

"I lost a colony. Me, the mighty British Empire. How pitiful." This wasn't the answer America wanted. He looked out at the forest dejectedly. "And… I lost you…"

Slowly America looked back at England. Oddly enough, England felt his heart leap into his stomach. It was exhilarating to have America's eyes spark excitement and anxiety in him once again. Perhaps there was some hope for them yet.

"I did lose," America mumbled as blush dusted his tan cheeks. "You never think that I lost someone important because you always forget yourself. I lost you…"

"I-I do not forget myself!"

America breathed a laugh. His stare became so much more invasive. "Yeah you do… It's always been that way since we met."

"Surely you jest." England's heart raced as America continued to stare. "I only think of my empire and nothing else."

"Then why are you here?"

England hesitated. Now that he thought about it, why had he followed America out to the desert in the first place? There was nothing he could do about this time trap, but why go on a vacation with America if he knew the relationship was on its last leg and he had better things to do back home? The reality of the situation was he just seemed to go along with America whenever the other nation asked him to come, or vice versa. America had done the same even when they knew the trip would end in them fighting and not speaking to each other for weeks. They were just that used to one another that they rarely questioned the other's motives about their invites.

"I know you, England. If you really didn't want to be mining or out in the desert, you would leave."

England gestured to the valley below. "Where would I go? I've no idea where I am."

"You're smart and resourceful. You'd find a way." America's voice had grown so strong in confidence. He never wavered from his piercing stare that was directed towards England. "You always would if France tried to pressure you into something."

England scoffed, "That's France. He's the exception to everything, and it's always a bad exception…"

America chuckled. "When will you two ever get along?"

"We can, but it's a matter of whether or not we'll like it."

"You don't hate me?" America asked suddenly. It was as if he were a child again, seeking acceptance from his guardian.

England wanted to smile, but that would ruin the mood. He wanted to remain firm, but not to where America didn't take his words to heart. "My dear lad, no. I may be… bitter from certain events, but it can't be helped now. You are a nation, albeit not a very strong one. But a nation you are. However, I must ask that you give me time. As you are having yours out here before you are forced to face such a horrible situation, I too must take the time to adjust to not having you in my life anymore."

"But, I'm still in your life," America said.

England paused to regard America. They shared a moment to smile in a friendly way, the first kind they had given one another since England's impromptu arrival.

Eventually they wandered back to camp. The men said nothing about their sudden vanishing act, and they instead all decided to turn in for the night. Tomorrow would be more mining, something England was not looking forward to. However, he thought that it might be easier now that they had gotten such a heavy weight off of their shoulders.

And then, there were eyes in England's dreams. They stared at him, violating him, and stripping him of his privacy. They knew he was a nation. They knew he was troubled. They just knew. Voices began to chant and they all spoke in a language England didn't know. Sometimes it was laced with English. One word stuck out more than anything: time.Hoshiko2's cents: One more chapter left, everyone! Hope to see you there! There's just one aspect left of the Wild West I have yet to do. Can you figure it out?

Oh, Pecos Bill and Davy Crockett are both legendary characters that were created long after this time, but it's amusing to believe America was those men.