3 - Favorites
Title: Favorites
Characters: England, America, Russia.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1821 - arbitration of the Treaty of Ghent. England can't decide if he wants to smack America more because he's a demanding, upstart little ingrate, or to beat some sense into him for pursuing a friendship with Russia.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London, 1821.
America burst into England's office, strode to his desk, and slammed down a stack of paperwork. "We need to talk," he declared.
England righted his ink well, his quill holder, and looked up at America. "What in God's name do you want now?"
"Do you maybe remember the Treaty of Ghent? I know memory gets rusty as you get older, so let me remind you: it was when we stopped being at war the last time? Napoleon got exiled, so you didn't have any reason to be a prick anymore? So we agreed to give back everything we'd stolen?"
"Yes, I remember how the bloody war ended--"
"Well, do you remember actually giving me back everything you'd stolen?"
England frowned. "Are you suggesting that I--"
"No, you don't, because you didn't," America snarled. "I'm specifically thinking of about two million dollars' worth of stolen private property--"
"--Ah, this is about slaves, isn't it?"
"This--" America stabbed an accusatory finger at the stack of papers on England's desk, "Is what your diplomats have to say about it. I have no idea what they're talking about! None!"
"I'm astonished."
"Look at this--does this make sense to you?" America pushed the top of the stack aside, which set off a rustling avalanche to the floor below England's desk. England pushed back his chair and pulled his boots an inch clear of the spill. "Here--all right--here you say that 'the claim of the United States to the indemnification for his slaves has not been contested.' That means that you don't argue that you should pay me back, right? Which is a lie, incidentally, since you've been doing nothing but argue about it since 1814, but nevermind. And then, here," more papers slipped to the floor and swept aloft across the tiles, "It's 'we cannot consider any property'…blah blah blah…'removed on shipboard prior to the ratification of the treaty'…do your officials always talk like this? Basically it says that anything you stole and shipped out before the treaty was signed, you don't have to pay for anymore."
England wet his lips. "It's rather more complicated than--"
"They mean completely contradictory things!"
"But given that the subject is slavery--"
"I don't want to get into another argument about slavery with you. I just want the money you owe me!"
"We will never reach any kind of accord if that is going to be your tone," England snapped.
"You're right, we're not!"
An interval of silence followed that declaration.
"Well, then, perhaps you would be willing to moderate your position," England tried.
"I have a better idea."
"Oh, of course you do."
"I want an arbitrator."
England blinked, then shifted back in his chair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Because I really don't think I can talk to you about this anymore without taking a swing at you," America concluded. "And I don't think that would be diplomatic."
"Not usually." England tapped an irregular tattoo on the edge of his desk. "Fine. An arbiter. I would consent to arbitration. France, I take it?"
But America surprised him. "No. I want Russia."
England sat forward again. He put his foot in the heap of papers under his desk, and they spread out further with a sigh. "What? Why?"
"Why not?" America countered. "What's wrong with Russia? He's the savior of Europe right now, since he beat Napoleon for all of you, isn't he?"
There were a dozen things England could object to about that sentence. He chose "America, the point of an arbiter is to choose a friendly nation."
"What's your point?"
He stared at him for a few seconds. "My point is that Russia isn't friendly with anybody."
"That's not true. Russia's been nice to me." America folded his arms.
"…He has?"
"Yes, he has."
"…Russia?"
America glanced towards the ceiling for a moment. "Well, I don't know if 'nice' is the right word," he allowed. He aimed his glare back at England. "But he actually treats me like an adult, which is more than I can say for the rest of you."
"More fool he," England muttered. "What makes you think he would want anything to do with this interminable dispute?"
America flicked a lock of hair off his forehead. "He's already offered."
England gaped for a moment, then abruptly closed his mouth. "You've been talking with Russia?"
"Like I said, we're getting along fine! I don't know what you all have against him. I was just talking to him the other day about expanding our north Pacific trade. To be honest, I kind of admire him."
"…Whatever for?"
"Well, he's survived putting up with you lot for some thousand years," America snapped. "I think that's an accomplishment."
"Fine," England sat up. "I'll accept him as our arbiter. I'm as sick of all of this paperwork as you are."
"Then I hope you'll visit me in DC soon." America left.
England didn't mind the paperwork. It was something one got used to. But all of a sudden, for reasons he didn't particularly want to examine, Russia and America in the same room was something he very much wanted to see.
---
Washington DC was less on fire than he remembered it, but he could still remember the merry crackling of the Library of Congress as it melted into flames. That was the only comforting thought England could muster throughout the negotiations. That, and he was fairly sure Russia and America weren't fucking each other yet. Everything else about the discussions made him long for a length of rope and a railing. They even ended with his least favorite three little words in the world.
"America is right," Russia announced.
"What?" England demanded.
"Really?" America brightened.
Russia glanced at him. "You aren't supposed to sound surprised."
"Well, I mean, obviously I'm right, I just didn't think--"
England clenched his teeth against a heavy pulse from his headache. "This is preposterous. How can I be expected to compensate him for property I can't, in good conscience, legally recognize him to possess? Slaves who escape to British lines must be acknowledged as free men--"
"Oh, 'escape,'" America sneered, "Half of them you stole out of people's homes and carried away!"
"--In accordance with common law," England overrode him. He stood and flattened his hands on the table. "This isn't the same as stolen jewelry or luxuries--"
"Please, don't try to pretend that your conscience has anything to do with this." America rose as well. "Don't think I don't know what you were doing with those people once you got them onto your ships. You were sailing them straight down to the West Indies and reselling them!"
"The--the prohibitive cost of waging a transcontinental war during the crisis with Napoleon--"
"So you took property off my land, and sold it, to fund your war against me! I ought to demand interest!" America gripped the edge of the table.
"It is not within the purview of this conference to determine wartime interest rates, as I have repeatedly said. The amount that you have already requested is already unforgivably high--" England stabbed a finger at America.
Russia, seated between them, sank a little lower and propped his head in his hand.
"Unforgivably--? It's less than half the value of what you stole! I've just given up on getting a full compensation, even though that's what you agreed to in the fucking treaty, since I know you're broke from mishandling the threat from Napoleon--" he braced forward.
"What would you know about the war against Napoleon, you couldn't even be bothered to stop trading with him--"
"No, you did that for me! The incalculable losses suffered by my merchants--"
"And I would do it again!" England shouted, so close to America now that a fleck of spittle landed on his cheek.
America's face contorted. "You absolute bastard, stop trying to tell me what to do! I'm not your colony anymore!"
England's arm shot out, and he grabbed America by the collar. America wrenched back, one knee on the table, and wound back for a swing. England lunged after him, caught his arm, and would have launched off the edge of the table and knocked America to the floor if Russia hadn't caught him by his coattails and thrown him bodily back into his chair. He landed with a teeth-jarring thud.
He blinked at Russia. Russia, by that point, held America upright by the back of his collar like a mother cat with her kitten. He dropped the young nation unceremoniously into his own chair. America ruffled his hair back into place and shot Russia a wounded look. "Would you," Russia requested, "Both, please, shut up?"
There was an awkward silence.
"England. You will pay America a quarter of a million pounds to settle your debt. In American currency. And it is your responsibility to deliver it here. Half of it is due immediately," Russia informed him.
England tried, "That's--"
"--My final decision," he cut him off.
"--Favoritism," England muttered.
Russia pretended not to hear. "Now, if we are done, I want a drink. You can kill each other once I'm out of the room. It is no longer my problem." He turned away from the table, then, shook his head to himself, shrugged his jacket straight on his shoulders, and marched out of the conference hall.
"Uh, thanks," America remembered to call, just as the door swung shut behind him.
England glowered across the table halfheartedly. America glanced at him, blushed a shade, dropped his gaze, then stood and gathered up his scattered papers.
England watched the younger nation for a few seconds, then sighed, "America."
America slowed in collecting his things. He didn't look towards England.
He paused for a moment. "Are you and Russia…involved in any way?"
A blink. "Yeah, of course we are." He slid a fingertip along the top edge of his papers to square the edges. "We have a number of trade agreements, and we're working on a wartime act of mutual protection for our overseas business interests--"
"That's…not what I mean."
America stopped. His lips thinned. "That's really even less your business than who I trade with."
"Yes, I know. But are you?"
America stood straight and met England's gaze. "No, we're not. We're friends, that's all."
England felt something untighten in his chest, and he let out a small breath. "I'm glad to hear it. Listen, don't get too…close, to that one. I would hate to see anything happen to you."
America grimaced and snapped his papers flat. "Likewise, I'm sure."
"I'm serious." And then he was on his feet, and his fingers closed gently around America's wrist. He fought against his rising blush and managed to keep his voice steady. "I am not…entirely insensible to our former close relations. Whatever…disputes we may have, I don't want to see you hurt."
"Not by anyone but you, anyway." America shook him off and tugged his sleeve straight. "I know you'd love nothing better than to see me come crawling back to the British Empire. Forget it. It's never going to happen. I'm doing fine. I held you off in the war. And I don't need you to tell me who to be friends with."
"Russia can't be trusted," England snapped.
"Who can be?" America fired back. "At least when he lies to me, I get the sense he's actually doing it to hide things. You and France and the rest just seem to do it because it's fun. I'm trying to base a system of government on honesty, and respect, and don't bring up slaves again, I'm so sick of talking about that with you--if you hadn't introduced slavery in the first place, we wouldn't be in this fix, and don't give me that 'well I got rid of it so so can you' speech, you don't have an economy based on agriculture--"
England made a sharp cutting gesture. "I wasn't going to bring up slavery."
"Russia is the only one who doesn't treat me like some naïve little kid for believing my system can work," America finished.
"Russia is little more than an overgrown child himself," England ground out. He tapped his fingers against the side of his thigh. "He seems civilized enough on the surface, but underneath it, he's a barbarian."
"You say the same thing about me." America crossed his arms and held his papers against his chest like a shield.
England frowned. "No, I say you're backwards, not that you're barbaric."
America fired him an ugly look. "Well, maybe we'll just go be backwards, misfit, overgrown children together, then." He turned towards the door.
England caught him by the shoulder. "You're making a mistake--"
America shoved him back hard enough that he struck the edge of the table. "I don't need your advice!"
England watched him go as he followed Russia out the door.
For the first time, he truly felt that America would never be his again.
+++
--Oh boy, um...this really did pretty much play out like it does in the fic. In 1821, either America requested Russian arbitration to settle the dispute over the return of or compensation for slaves "lost" during the War of 1812, or Tsar Alexander offered to arbitrate and the Americans accepted. The British reluctantly went along with it, digging their heels in the entire way. UK-US relations were extremely poor at the time. The Russians did decide in favor of the Americans, although it didn't happen overnight: while the basic settlement was determined by 1822, Russia didn't get to excuse himself from the table and get drunk as far away from these feuding twits as he was able until 1827.
--As for the actual content of the dispute, settlement for "stolen" (if you were an American) or "liberated" (if you were English, and either not very well informed, or willing to bend the truth a little) slaves was less a series of arguments between them than it was one long argument that went from 1783 to about 1830. From a modern perspective, England was certainly in the right, although, being England, he went about being right in the most dickish possible way, so it's hard to muster a lot of sympathy for him. You can read a very interesting article about all this here.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: England, America, Russia.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1821 - arbitration of the Treaty of Ghent. England can't decide if he wants to smack America more because he's a demanding, upstart little ingrate, or to beat some sense into him for pursuing a friendship with Russia.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London, 1821.
America burst into England's office, strode to his desk, and slammed down a stack of paperwork. "We need to talk," he declared.
England righted his ink well, his quill holder, and looked up at America. "What in God's name do you want now?"
"Do you maybe remember the Treaty of Ghent? I know memory gets rusty as you get older, so let me remind you: it was when we stopped being at war the last time? Napoleon got exiled, so you didn't have any reason to be a prick anymore? So we agreed to give back everything we'd stolen?"
"Yes, I remember how the bloody war ended--"
"Well, do you remember actually giving me back everything you'd stolen?"
England frowned. "Are you suggesting that I--"
"No, you don't, because you didn't," America snarled. "I'm specifically thinking of about two million dollars' worth of stolen private property--"
"--Ah, this is about slaves, isn't it?"
"This--" America stabbed an accusatory finger at the stack of papers on England's desk, "Is what your diplomats have to say about it. I have no idea what they're talking about! None!"
"I'm astonished."
"Look at this--does this make sense to you?" America pushed the top of the stack aside, which set off a rustling avalanche to the floor below England's desk. England pushed back his chair and pulled his boots an inch clear of the spill. "Here--all right--here you say that 'the claim of the United States to the indemnification for his slaves has not been contested.' That means that you don't argue that you should pay me back, right? Which is a lie, incidentally, since you've been doing nothing but argue about it since 1814, but nevermind. And then, here," more papers slipped to the floor and swept aloft across the tiles, "It's 'we cannot consider any property'…blah blah blah…'removed on shipboard prior to the ratification of the treaty'…do your officials always talk like this? Basically it says that anything you stole and shipped out before the treaty was signed, you don't have to pay for anymore."
England wet his lips. "It's rather more complicated than--"
"They mean completely contradictory things!"
"But given that the subject is slavery--"
"I don't want to get into another argument about slavery with you. I just want the money you owe me!"
"We will never reach any kind of accord if that is going to be your tone," England snapped.
"You're right, we're not!"
An interval of silence followed that declaration.
"Well, then, perhaps you would be willing to moderate your position," England tried.
"I have a better idea."
"Oh, of course you do."
"I want an arbitrator."
England blinked, then shifted back in his chair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Because I really don't think I can talk to you about this anymore without taking a swing at you," America concluded. "And I don't think that would be diplomatic."
"Not usually." England tapped an irregular tattoo on the edge of his desk. "Fine. An arbiter. I would consent to arbitration. France, I take it?"
But America surprised him. "No. I want Russia."
England sat forward again. He put his foot in the heap of papers under his desk, and they spread out further with a sigh. "What? Why?"
"Why not?" America countered. "What's wrong with Russia? He's the savior of Europe right now, since he beat Napoleon for all of you, isn't he?"
There were a dozen things England could object to about that sentence. He chose "America, the point of an arbiter is to choose a friendly nation."
"What's your point?"
He stared at him for a few seconds. "My point is that Russia isn't friendly with anybody."
"That's not true. Russia's been nice to me." America folded his arms.
"…He has?"
"Yes, he has."
"…Russia?"
America glanced towards the ceiling for a moment. "Well, I don't know if 'nice' is the right word," he allowed. He aimed his glare back at England. "But he actually treats me like an adult, which is more than I can say for the rest of you."
"More fool he," England muttered. "What makes you think he would want anything to do with this interminable dispute?"
America flicked a lock of hair off his forehead. "He's already offered."
England gaped for a moment, then abruptly closed his mouth. "You've been talking with Russia?"
"Like I said, we're getting along fine! I don't know what you all have against him. I was just talking to him the other day about expanding our north Pacific trade. To be honest, I kind of admire him."
"…Whatever for?"
"Well, he's survived putting up with you lot for some thousand years," America snapped. "I think that's an accomplishment."
"Fine," England sat up. "I'll accept him as our arbiter. I'm as sick of all of this paperwork as you are."
"Then I hope you'll visit me in DC soon." America left.
England didn't mind the paperwork. It was something one got used to. But all of a sudden, for reasons he didn't particularly want to examine, Russia and America in the same room was something he very much wanted to see.
---
Washington DC was less on fire than he remembered it, but he could still remember the merry crackling of the Library of Congress as it melted into flames. That was the only comforting thought England could muster throughout the negotiations. That, and he was fairly sure Russia and America weren't fucking each other yet. Everything else about the discussions made him long for a length of rope and a railing. They even ended with his least favorite three little words in the world.
"America is right," Russia announced.
"What?" England demanded.
"Really?" America brightened.
Russia glanced at him. "You aren't supposed to sound surprised."
"Well, I mean, obviously I'm right, I just didn't think--"
England clenched his teeth against a heavy pulse from his headache. "This is preposterous. How can I be expected to compensate him for property I can't, in good conscience, legally recognize him to possess? Slaves who escape to British lines must be acknowledged as free men--"
"Oh, 'escape,'" America sneered, "Half of them you stole out of people's homes and carried away!"
"--In accordance with common law," England overrode him. He stood and flattened his hands on the table. "This isn't the same as stolen jewelry or luxuries--"
"Please, don't try to pretend that your conscience has anything to do with this." America rose as well. "Don't think I don't know what you were doing with those people once you got them onto your ships. You were sailing them straight down to the West Indies and reselling them!"
"The--the prohibitive cost of waging a transcontinental war during the crisis with Napoleon--"
"So you took property off my land, and sold it, to fund your war against me! I ought to demand interest!" America gripped the edge of the table.
"It is not within the purview of this conference to determine wartime interest rates, as I have repeatedly said. The amount that you have already requested is already unforgivably high--" England stabbed a finger at America.
Russia, seated between them, sank a little lower and propped his head in his hand.
"Unforgivably--? It's less than half the value of what you stole! I've just given up on getting a full compensation, even though that's what you agreed to in the fucking treaty, since I know you're broke from mishandling the threat from Napoleon--" he braced forward.
"What would you know about the war against Napoleon, you couldn't even be bothered to stop trading with him--"
"No, you did that for me! The incalculable losses suffered by my merchants--"
"And I would do it again!" England shouted, so close to America now that a fleck of spittle landed on his cheek.
America's face contorted. "You absolute bastard, stop trying to tell me what to do! I'm not your colony anymore!"
England's arm shot out, and he grabbed America by the collar. America wrenched back, one knee on the table, and wound back for a swing. England lunged after him, caught his arm, and would have launched off the edge of the table and knocked America to the floor if Russia hadn't caught him by his coattails and thrown him bodily back into his chair. He landed with a teeth-jarring thud.
He blinked at Russia. Russia, by that point, held America upright by the back of his collar like a mother cat with her kitten. He dropped the young nation unceremoniously into his own chair. America ruffled his hair back into place and shot Russia a wounded look. "Would you," Russia requested, "Both, please, shut up?"
There was an awkward silence.
"England. You will pay America a quarter of a million pounds to settle your debt. In American currency. And it is your responsibility to deliver it here. Half of it is due immediately," Russia informed him.
England tried, "That's--"
"--My final decision," he cut him off.
"--Favoritism," England muttered.
Russia pretended not to hear. "Now, if we are done, I want a drink. You can kill each other once I'm out of the room. It is no longer my problem." He turned away from the table, then, shook his head to himself, shrugged his jacket straight on his shoulders, and marched out of the conference hall.
"Uh, thanks," America remembered to call, just as the door swung shut behind him.
England glowered across the table halfheartedly. America glanced at him, blushed a shade, dropped his gaze, then stood and gathered up his scattered papers.
England watched the younger nation for a few seconds, then sighed, "America."
America slowed in collecting his things. He didn't look towards England.
He paused for a moment. "Are you and Russia…involved in any way?"
A blink. "Yeah, of course we are." He slid a fingertip along the top edge of his papers to square the edges. "We have a number of trade agreements, and we're working on a wartime act of mutual protection for our overseas business interests--"
"That's…not what I mean."
America stopped. His lips thinned. "That's really even less your business than who I trade with."
"Yes, I know. But are you?"
America stood straight and met England's gaze. "No, we're not. We're friends, that's all."
England felt something untighten in his chest, and he let out a small breath. "I'm glad to hear it. Listen, don't get too…close, to that one. I would hate to see anything happen to you."
America grimaced and snapped his papers flat. "Likewise, I'm sure."
"I'm serious." And then he was on his feet, and his fingers closed gently around America's wrist. He fought against his rising blush and managed to keep his voice steady. "I am not…entirely insensible to our former close relations. Whatever…disputes we may have, I don't want to see you hurt."
"Not by anyone but you, anyway." America shook him off and tugged his sleeve straight. "I know you'd love nothing better than to see me come crawling back to the British Empire. Forget it. It's never going to happen. I'm doing fine. I held you off in the war. And I don't need you to tell me who to be friends with."
"Russia can't be trusted," England snapped.
"Who can be?" America fired back. "At least when he lies to me, I get the sense he's actually doing it to hide things. You and France and the rest just seem to do it because it's fun. I'm trying to base a system of government on honesty, and respect, and don't bring up slaves again, I'm so sick of talking about that with you--if you hadn't introduced slavery in the first place, we wouldn't be in this fix, and don't give me that 'well I got rid of it so so can you' speech, you don't have an economy based on agriculture--"
England made a sharp cutting gesture. "I wasn't going to bring up slavery."
"Russia is the only one who doesn't treat me like some naïve little kid for believing my system can work," America finished.
"Russia is little more than an overgrown child himself," England ground out. He tapped his fingers against the side of his thigh. "He seems civilized enough on the surface, but underneath it, he's a barbarian."
"You say the same thing about me." America crossed his arms and held his papers against his chest like a shield.
England frowned. "No, I say you're backwards, not that you're barbaric."
America fired him an ugly look. "Well, maybe we'll just go be backwards, misfit, overgrown children together, then." He turned towards the door.
England caught him by the shoulder. "You're making a mistake--"
America shoved him back hard enough that he struck the edge of the table. "I don't need your advice!"
England watched him go as he followed Russia out the door.
For the first time, he truly felt that America would never be his again.
+++
--Oh boy, um...this really did pretty much play out like it does in the fic. In 1821, either America requested Russian arbitration to settle the dispute over the return of or compensation for slaves "lost" during the War of 1812, or Tsar Alexander offered to arbitrate and the Americans accepted. The British reluctantly went along with it, digging their heels in the entire way. UK-US relations were extremely poor at the time. The Russians did decide in favor of the Americans, although it didn't happen overnight: while the basic settlement was determined by 1822, Russia didn't get to excuse himself from the table and get drunk as far away from these feuding twits as he was able until 1827.
--As for the actual content of the dispute, settlement for "stolen" (if you were an American) or "liberated" (if you were English, and either not very well informed, or willing to bend the truth a little) slaves was less a series of arguments between them than it was one long argument that went from 1783 to about 1830. From a modern perspective, England was certainly in the right, although, being England, he went about being right in the most dickish possible way, so it's hard to muster a lot of sympathy for him. You can read a very interesting article about all this here.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.