Burn It Down
Title: Burn It Down
Originally posted: Here, for kanae as my half of an art-for-fic trade.
Length: 1,900 words.
Characters/Pairings: UK, America.
Premise: War of 1812; the burning of Washington DC.
Time period: 1814
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 7/10
Lolhistoryness: 5/10. It was so called the White House prior to these events.
Violence: 5/10
Would I like it?: It's a hatefic. So, bleak. Lots of ~subtext,~ though, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Makes passing mention of the France/US relationship here.
England hunted.
He knew, on some level, that he was taking too long--that the men downstairs must be wondering where he was. It wasn't like this was Westminster Palace. There weren't that many places to hide. He should have found the bastard already. The responsible thing to do would be to go back to the dining room, where his officers were assembled, and organize a search party.
He kicked open a door and smiled to hear the wood crack.
But his officers were enjoying their dinner, which had been laid out considerately for someone, if not for them. And the truth was, England felt no sense of urgency. All of the exits to the presidential mansion were well guarded. He was sure America had nowhere he could go. And this whole campaign had been such an irritation, he deserved a bit of diversion, didn't he…?
He realized he must have found the president's bedroom. He entered with his pistol drawn.
It was a mess. This was not his fault--his men were too disciplined to loot anything more than 'souvenirs.' In any case, they had been firmly enjoined to stay downstairs until the building was secure, and one of the riflemen had seen "An aide, or possibly some minor official" escape up the stairs. England could only think of one person stupid enough to stay behind when the British army arrived literally on his doorstep.
He stepped over an upturned jewelry box and a dull heap of Dolly Madison's jewels. He glanced at the back closet. "America?"
He heard old wood settle, and the distant sound of soldiers laughing; nothing else. England flexed the pistol in his hand.
He crossed through a maze of heaped up, torn down drapery, pulled out shelves, and other detritus made blue-grey and indistinct in the evening murk. He kept his ears pricked and his eyes fixed on the dark sliver of the just-open closet door. He reached out for it, gun cocked.
The attack from behind, when it came, was a dreary confirmation of life's predictability. England marked the shadow as it rose over his shoulder, stepped to the side, and brought the butt of his pistol down and across his body to connect with his attacker's gut. America doubled over and dropped an iron poker.
"You still haven't learned to apprehend the simplest misdirection," England sighed, and followed up with a jaw-numbing uppercut.
America wasn't as soft as he used to be, though. He staggered back, caught himself against the canopy bed, then rebounded, already swinging. England smiled. He jerked back from the first blow, then turned into the second. He would have a bruise on his ribs in the morning, but he caught America's wrist before he could withdraw, twisted, and yanked him in and around. America cried out.
"Keep fighting and I'll break your arm," he spoke against the younger nation's ear.
America jerked against him. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "This is a civilian--ahh, fuck!" He rose unto the balls of his feet as England wrenched his arm higher. Somehow, he still managed, "A--ahh--civilian area--God--"
"Is there anyone else here?" England planted his boot in the pit of America's right knee, and pushed. His former protégé buckled and gave a thin scream. "Or were you alone?"
"Like I'd tell you--nngh--!"
"Don't be troublesome, for once in your life." England holstered his pistol. "I'm not about to line your kitchen staff up to be shot. I'd like to know if anyone else is in the building out of common decency."
"What's decent about what you've done here today?" America spat. He gave up fighting and leaned heavily back into England. He tried to glare over his shoulder. "You have no reason to be here! There are no soldiers here for you to fight, there's no arsenal! You drove the First Lady out into the streets, alone! Your men have set fire to half the city, and now they're eating dinner--the president's dinner!"
"It's a good joke, isn't it?" England agreed. He grabbed America by the hair and yanked his head back. "But it behooves you to be forthcoming--"
America writhed. "If anyone ever treated King George like this, his home, his family--"
"I'd think it was infamous, of course, but as I was saying--" a sharp tug on America's bent back arm satisfied England's desire for an attentive audience. "We intend to burn this part of the city as well, and roasting your wait staff alive would not be within the confines of good taste."
"You're a bastard," America snarled.
"Is there anyone else left in the building?"
"Ahh--no, damn it--"
"Good." England relaxed his hold and America sagged back to the ground. A pensive moment passed. He tried, "If I let you go, will you come along peacefully?"
"I can't believe you're doing this," America muttered.
Why didn't he ever listen? "It didn't occur to you that you might face reprisals for your impertinent behavior?" He pushed the young nation towards the door.
America stumbled, tried to push off England's arm, failed, and snapped, "My impertinent…you started all this!"
"Really." England dragged him along. "I'm certain I remember reading a declaration of war from you."
"Because--augh, dammit, let me go!"
"You seem excitable. I think I won't."
America jerked against his hold again, and only managed to hurt himself. He rallied. "Only because you left me no other recourse. You search and seize my cargo, you kidnap my sailors--I'm a sovereign nation, you acknowledged it, I have the right to trade with anyone I want--"
"Not France," he replied through grit teeth. "Certainly not when I'm at war with him."
"Your war with France has nothing to do with me. I declared my neutrality--" he struggled.
England's fingers curled hard into his protégé's skin. "Yes, I've been very impressed by your policy of neutrality. You've been spreading yourself around diligently, haven't you?"
"W-what?" The back of his neck flushed.
"You and France, ever since your pathetic insurrection," he hissed. America's sudden silence, that indelicate blush, the way he floundered against England's hold like a gasping fish--England felt his bile rise. "You brought this upon yourself for entertaining that…alliance. I hope you're satisfied."
"I'm more satisfied with him than I ever was with you," America shot back.
England broke his wrist.
The young nation screamed and his knees folded beneath him. England let him drop to the floor, released him, and backed away. He tasted acid in the back of his throat. America curled over his knees and cradled his right hand to his chest, and whispered, "Damn it. Ahh--damn it. Damn it," over and over again. England closed his eyes.
They flew open in astonishment a heartbeat of seconds later, when America slammed him against the wall. His pistol was jerked out of its holster and pressed into his gut, and America jammed his right forearm against England's throat. His pallor was exquisite, tears of pain flowed silently down his cheeks, but his face was twisted into open rage. England shoved him, and America threw him hard enough into the wall that his head bounced and for a moment his vision went white. He pressed flush against England, the gun pushed into the empire hard enough to bruise, his arm pressed into his neck with enough force to cut off England's air. He glared at his former ruler from three inches away, and spat in his face.
"You're a bastard," he repeated.
England reached up, wrapped his fingers around the boy's wrist, and squeezed. America turned white, turned grey, but didn't back away. His breath came hoarse and ragged. "You're a bastard, and a tyrant, and a bully." His voice shook badly. "Y-you think you can just make people do what you want. You don't give a damn about anyone." He blew out a breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when they opened they were just as angry as before. "I c-can't believe I ever--" he stopped, swallowed. He went on in a low, harsh voice: "I…can't believe I was ever stupid enough to care about you."
England's eyelids flickered.
"You don't believe in anything, do you." America sounded disgusted. He shoved off of England and staggered back a few steps. He kept the gun pointed at the other nation and curled his broken hand against his stomach. "You're just a…a jaded son of a bitch. Out for all you…all you can take." He flung the pistol away down the hall, and it skidded across the hardwood floor and cracked against the far wall. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, fuck you."
England rubbed his throat and didn't meet America's eyes. "And you're a naïve little pissant," he muttered.
"You just came here to hurt me, didn't you." He leaned against the wall opposite the empire and stared at the floor.
England didn't say anything.
"You burned down the capitol building. And the printing presses, for all the newspapers, you burned those. I've been watching the fires." America looked up at him and caught him watching. "You burned the Library of Congress. That…that was…"
"It's war," England bit out.
"This wasn't about the war," America returned softly.
A pained silence stretched between them.
America pushed off the wall and swayed over his feet. England knew that his wrist must be hurting more, not less, than it had five minutes ago, and a part of him was amazed the other nation was still standing. Sweat pocked the boy's forehead, and he seemed to be ignoring his steady leak of tears. "Take what you want, burn down the presidential mansion, I can't stop you." He turned his back on England and lurched towards the far staircase. "Just get out of my city when you're done, and don't ever come back." England heard as he muttered to himself, "You hateful son of a bitch."
England remained where he was, leaned against the wall, until he heard the commotion at the front door. He felt old as he bent to pick up his pistol and straightened his uniform. He found the soldiers in an uproar, a tight cluster around two watchmen who'd been laid flat.
"Are they dead?" he asked tiredly of no one in particular.
"Sir! Ah, no sir! They just appear to be, ah…"
He nodded a little. "Did you send someone after the man who did this?"
"Yes, sir! A search team of--"
He held up a hand. "Just…send someone to bring the search team back. He's not a threat."
His staff officer blinked, then saluted dutifully and took off.
***
An hour later, he stood on the ash-flecked lawn as the White House burned. His soldiers cheered and toasted each other. One of them appeared to have found one of James Madison's hats, and was modeling it for the rest of his squadron.
England watched the fire, and told himself that he felt nothing.
Originally posted: Here, for kanae as my half of an art-for-fic trade.
Length: 1,900 words.
Characters/Pairings: UK, America.
Premise: War of 1812; the burning of Washington DC.
Time period: 1814
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 7/10
Lolhistoryness: 5/10. It was so called the White House prior to these events.
Violence: 5/10
Would I like it?: It's a hatefic. So, bleak. Lots of ~subtext,~ though, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Makes passing mention of the France/US relationship here.
England hunted.
He knew, on some level, that he was taking too long--that the men downstairs must be wondering where he was. It wasn't like this was Westminster Palace. There weren't that many places to hide. He should have found the bastard already. The responsible thing to do would be to go back to the dining room, where his officers were assembled, and organize a search party.
He kicked open a door and smiled to hear the wood crack.
But his officers were enjoying their dinner, which had been laid out considerately for someone, if not for them. And the truth was, England felt no sense of urgency. All of the exits to the presidential mansion were well guarded. He was sure America had nowhere he could go. And this whole campaign had been such an irritation, he deserved a bit of diversion, didn't he…?
He realized he must have found the president's bedroom. He entered with his pistol drawn.
It was a mess. This was not his fault--his men were too disciplined to loot anything more than 'souvenirs.' In any case, they had been firmly enjoined to stay downstairs until the building was secure, and one of the riflemen had seen "An aide, or possibly some minor official" escape up the stairs. England could only think of one person stupid enough to stay behind when the British army arrived literally on his doorstep.
He stepped over an upturned jewelry box and a dull heap of Dolly Madison's jewels. He glanced at the back closet. "America?"
He heard old wood settle, and the distant sound of soldiers laughing; nothing else. England flexed the pistol in his hand.
He crossed through a maze of heaped up, torn down drapery, pulled out shelves, and other detritus made blue-grey and indistinct in the evening murk. He kept his ears pricked and his eyes fixed on the dark sliver of the just-open closet door. He reached out for it, gun cocked.
The attack from behind, when it came, was a dreary confirmation of life's predictability. England marked the shadow as it rose over his shoulder, stepped to the side, and brought the butt of his pistol down and across his body to connect with his attacker's gut. America doubled over and dropped an iron poker.
"You still haven't learned to apprehend the simplest misdirection," England sighed, and followed up with a jaw-numbing uppercut.
America wasn't as soft as he used to be, though. He staggered back, caught himself against the canopy bed, then rebounded, already swinging. England smiled. He jerked back from the first blow, then turned into the second. He would have a bruise on his ribs in the morning, but he caught America's wrist before he could withdraw, twisted, and yanked him in and around. America cried out.
"Keep fighting and I'll break your arm," he spoke against the younger nation's ear.
America jerked against him. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "This is a civilian--ahh, fuck!" He rose unto the balls of his feet as England wrenched his arm higher. Somehow, he still managed, "A--ahh--civilian area--God--"
"Is there anyone else here?" England planted his boot in the pit of America's right knee, and pushed. His former protégé buckled and gave a thin scream. "Or were you alone?"
"Like I'd tell you--nngh--!"
"Don't be troublesome, for once in your life." England holstered his pistol. "I'm not about to line your kitchen staff up to be shot. I'd like to know if anyone else is in the building out of common decency."
"What's decent about what you've done here today?" America spat. He gave up fighting and leaned heavily back into England. He tried to glare over his shoulder. "You have no reason to be here! There are no soldiers here for you to fight, there's no arsenal! You drove the First Lady out into the streets, alone! Your men have set fire to half the city, and now they're eating dinner--the president's dinner!"
"It's a good joke, isn't it?" England agreed. He grabbed America by the hair and yanked his head back. "But it behooves you to be forthcoming--"
America writhed. "If anyone ever treated King George like this, his home, his family--"
"I'd think it was infamous, of course, but as I was saying--" a sharp tug on America's bent back arm satisfied England's desire for an attentive audience. "We intend to burn this part of the city as well, and roasting your wait staff alive would not be within the confines of good taste."
"You're a bastard," America snarled.
"Is there anyone else left in the building?"
"Ahh--no, damn it--"
"Good." England relaxed his hold and America sagged back to the ground. A pensive moment passed. He tried, "If I let you go, will you come along peacefully?"
"I can't believe you're doing this," America muttered.
Why didn't he ever listen? "It didn't occur to you that you might face reprisals for your impertinent behavior?" He pushed the young nation towards the door.
America stumbled, tried to push off England's arm, failed, and snapped, "My impertinent…you started all this!"
"Really." England dragged him along. "I'm certain I remember reading a declaration of war from you."
"Because--augh, dammit, let me go!"
"You seem excitable. I think I won't."
America jerked against his hold again, and only managed to hurt himself. He rallied. "Only because you left me no other recourse. You search and seize my cargo, you kidnap my sailors--I'm a sovereign nation, you acknowledged it, I have the right to trade with anyone I want--"
"Not France," he replied through grit teeth. "Certainly not when I'm at war with him."
"Your war with France has nothing to do with me. I declared my neutrality--" he struggled.
England's fingers curled hard into his protégé's skin. "Yes, I've been very impressed by your policy of neutrality. You've been spreading yourself around diligently, haven't you?"
"W-what?" The back of his neck flushed.
"You and France, ever since your pathetic insurrection," he hissed. America's sudden silence, that indelicate blush, the way he floundered against England's hold like a gasping fish--England felt his bile rise. "You brought this upon yourself for entertaining that…alliance. I hope you're satisfied."
"I'm more satisfied with him than I ever was with you," America shot back.
England broke his wrist.
The young nation screamed and his knees folded beneath him. England let him drop to the floor, released him, and backed away. He tasted acid in the back of his throat. America curled over his knees and cradled his right hand to his chest, and whispered, "Damn it. Ahh--damn it. Damn it," over and over again. England closed his eyes.
They flew open in astonishment a heartbeat of seconds later, when America slammed him against the wall. His pistol was jerked out of its holster and pressed into his gut, and America jammed his right forearm against England's throat. His pallor was exquisite, tears of pain flowed silently down his cheeks, but his face was twisted into open rage. England shoved him, and America threw him hard enough into the wall that his head bounced and for a moment his vision went white. He pressed flush against England, the gun pushed into the empire hard enough to bruise, his arm pressed into his neck with enough force to cut off England's air. He glared at his former ruler from three inches away, and spat in his face.
"You're a bastard," he repeated.
England reached up, wrapped his fingers around the boy's wrist, and squeezed. America turned white, turned grey, but didn't back away. His breath came hoarse and ragged. "You're a bastard, and a tyrant, and a bully." His voice shook badly. "Y-you think you can just make people do what you want. You don't give a damn about anyone." He blew out a breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when they opened they were just as angry as before. "I c-can't believe I ever--" he stopped, swallowed. He went on in a low, harsh voice: "I…can't believe I was ever stupid enough to care about you."
England's eyelids flickered.
"You don't believe in anything, do you." America sounded disgusted. He shoved off of England and staggered back a few steps. He kept the gun pointed at the other nation and curled his broken hand against his stomach. "You're just a…a jaded son of a bitch. Out for all you…all you can take." He flung the pistol away down the hall, and it skidded across the hardwood floor and cracked against the far wall. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, fuck you."
England rubbed his throat and didn't meet America's eyes. "And you're a naïve little pissant," he muttered.
"You just came here to hurt me, didn't you." He leaned against the wall opposite the empire and stared at the floor.
England didn't say anything.
"You burned down the capitol building. And the printing presses, for all the newspapers, you burned those. I've been watching the fires." America looked up at him and caught him watching. "You burned the Library of Congress. That…that was…"
"It's war," England bit out.
"This wasn't about the war," America returned softly.
A pained silence stretched between them.
America pushed off the wall and swayed over his feet. England knew that his wrist must be hurting more, not less, than it had five minutes ago, and a part of him was amazed the other nation was still standing. Sweat pocked the boy's forehead, and he seemed to be ignoring his steady leak of tears. "Take what you want, burn down the presidential mansion, I can't stop you." He turned his back on England and lurched towards the far staircase. "Just get out of my city when you're done, and don't ever come back." England heard as he muttered to himself, "You hateful son of a bitch."
England remained where he was, leaned against the wall, until he heard the commotion at the front door. He felt old as he bent to pick up his pistol and straightened his uniform. He found the soldiers in an uproar, a tight cluster around two watchmen who'd been laid flat.
"Are they dead?" he asked tiredly of no one in particular.
"Sir! Ah, no sir! They just appear to be, ah…"
He nodded a little. "Did you send someone after the man who did this?"
"Yes, sir! A search team of--"
He held up a hand. "Just…send someone to bring the search team back. He's not a threat."
His staff officer blinked, then saluted dutifully and took off.
***
An hour later, he stood on the ash-flecked lawn as the White House burned. His soldiers cheered and toasted each other. One of them appeared to have found one of James Madison's hats, and was modeling it for the rest of his squadron.
England watched the fire, and told himself that he felt nothing.