Title: Changing

Pairing: England/America

Word count: 5,990

Summary: Written for the Hetalia Kink Meme on LiveJournal. Request was "America is for once completely serious at a world conference and boy howdy does that turn England on~~".

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America had generally acted as chairman at world summits for quite some time now. It wasn’t that he was particularly effective as a leader, or that everyone else had voted him this position. It was just that he tended to come in, slam his fists down on the conference table in a haze of excitement and misplaced ambition, and barrel straight on into whatever issue sprang into his nearly empty head first. And since he was the loudest, no one bothered to question it.

The last several summits had been ugly, though. Really ugly. They’d started off okay, England supposed, but after about five minutes things always, well… went downhill. America would announce that they were going to combat greenhouse emissions by encapsulating China in an enormous plastic bubble that would filter all air coming out of it, and of course he’d gotten the bubble idea from some horrid film he’d seen on late night cable, then China would spring out of his chair indignantly and counter by asking America what America was going to do about the fact that Iraq’s house was halfway to complete collapse, and then Japan would back America up and Romano would jump on board with China just to be an ass, and before long there would be a knock-down drag-out brawl on the expensive mahogany table they all sat around, with tea and papers and conference phones flying every which way, and eventually it would come down to Germany separating the entangled parties either by physical force or vocal intimidation, and nothing would get accomplished.

England could fight with America better than anyone, he thought, and that had always been his job. America was his former colony, so when he was at America’s throat all the time it was okay. They were family. Honestly, he’d never let on to the fact, but seeing everyone else jump on America made him a little… protective. Raised his hackles. But fortunately his collar always covered that.

So England didn’t take part in the annual brawls… not much, anyway. Which allowed him to sit back and see the strain on America’s face that no one else would probably pick out. The vague look of pained resignation just before Switzerland sacked him straight into the whiteboard at the front of the room three years ago, neutrality be damned. America had never been particularly good at coping with his bosses, and England supposed that was the problem now. They all had their hands tied in a lot of ways, and America hadn’t changed; the person doling out his directives had. England hated to admit it because America was a moron, but maybe it wasn’t… really all his fault.

Not that that mattered, in the end.

They’d all come to dread world summits, needless to say, but it wasn’t like they could cancel them, and it wasn’t like they could ask America to sit out for sanity’s sake. America was the only superpower, at least unless China figured out how to get himself to the head of the table. So now here England was, trying to ignore the fact that he was stuck sitting next to France again and dreading the door opening, because America was the only one who hadn’t arrived yet. He reached for his briefcase and then the bottle of water that had been left on the table in front of him.

He was digging through his papers and writing utensils trying to find the small bottle of aspirin he’d learned to keep with them when the door was flung open and the room went silent – except, of course and as always, for Italy still babbling some culinary frivolity at a very stressed-looking and only half-listening Germany. England hurried and dumped a few of the pills into his hand and tossed them back as America made his way to the front of the table, set his own sleek, too-modern briefcase down, and opened it. He always did this, because his briefcase was where he kept things like his notes (written for almost the last decade now in what usually looked like crayon), the laser pointer he was too fond of, and the thumb drive containing his snazzily-produced slide presentation of bad ideas.

Briefcase back on the floor, pills at the back of his throat. England practically tore the cap off his bottled water, and as he took a long, long drink from it America pulled out the contents of his briefcase and slammed them down on the table the way he normally would’ve been slamming his hands there at this point. But it wasn’t his hands this time. It was neat, sensible black binders filled with crisp white paper. A whole pile of them. Italy went silent at the same time as the water England was trying to get down his throat came back up out his nose.

America was organized.

So organized that nobody seemed to even notice England drowning three seats down on the left. They were too mesmerized by the way America was handing binders to Austria on his left and Japan on his right and telling them to pass them down.

“These aren’t as thorough as we wanted, but we didn’t have as much time as we wanted to prepare them,” he said. “I hope you all don’t mind if I don’t open the floor to discussion until after I go over our agenda, but we have a lot to cover and I want to make sure we’re all on the same page before we start. England. England!”

England realized, as he managed to get himself to stop coughing (for the most part), that France was giving him some sort of unreadable smirk as he proffered him the stack of binders that had re-accumulated in his possession. He grabbed them and practically shoved all but one of them on down to Spain, and then he flipped his open.

It had a cover sheet, and a table of contents that outlined what looked to be every major issue facing them all this year. It had color-coded tabbed dividers.

“Did they build an office supply store next to your favorite McDonald’s or something?” Romano scoffed from down the table.

“As far as I know the White House staff got all this out of a supply closet,” America replied. It was hard to tell if he was joking or not, but either way he was simply and purposefully brushing past the comment – he was too busy pulling up his slide presentation to deal with sarcasm. The shocking thing about this was that he seemed like he might have actually noted the sarcasm, whereas normally such things took unscheduled flights through the airspace right over his head.

The first slide that came up on the screen had no sound effects. No fancy wipe transitions. Nothing but a crisp, tasteful blue and white color scheme and some friendly but businesslike text reading “World Conference Spring 2009”. England swallowed. What was going on here?

“All right, our first order of business is going to be the economy!” America said, looking up from the computer to address the room.

Here it comes, England thought. The part where he tries to launch a covert ops mission to spring Iceland out of intensive care.

“Sweden,” America said. “Did you bring the report I asked for on bank nationalization?”

England’s head whipped around to look at Sweden, who reached into his papers and pulled out a manila envelope that he then passed toward the head of the table. He felt his jaw drop slightly. His eyes followed the envelope as it passed from country to country and finally into America’s hands. America opened it and looked over the first page, and he smiled. England suddenly felt a little like he was choking again.

He stared at America. America, with his briefcase full of carefully-prepared documents. America, with his professional-looking slide presentation. America, who’d asked in advance for pertinent information to be brought to him.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

By the end of America’s rundown on relative currency values over the past sixteen months, complete with carefully-plotted line graphs, England was sure that the room was getting hotter. He was sweating underneath his collar; he could feel it, and it was making him itch.

America’s best idea on renewable energy last year had been cold fusion. For three years running before that, he’d come up with various schemes that all involved, at their heart, something called dilithium crystals that America was convinced he could produce in a normal fission reactor. This year, though, he talked about solar energy and wind power, and praised Japan’s hybrid cars until the other country was blushing. England bit his lip and tightened a fist in the fabric of his pant leg. Suddenly he really, really wanted to start a company.

A hybrid car company.

God damn it.

And there was something in the way America said “nuclear proliferation” that sent chills down England’s spine, and they had nothing to do with the deteriorating mental state of Korea’s already utterly bonkers brother. Maybe they had more to do with the fact that on multiple occasions in the past, America had referred to them as “those bombs… you know, the big ones”. Or maybe it had something to do with the shape of the warheads in the visual aids in the binder America had given them all.

No. No it did not. There was nothing appealing about fusion bombs. On any level. Ever.

By the time the agenda got around to global warming, England was watching America with upraised eyes in a downturned head, like maybe everyone else in the room would somehow assume that he was looking at his binder instead. The binder was in his lap, propped against the table, and it was still open to the nuclear proliferation section because England hadn’t looked down at it in almost half an hour. His fingers, though, were tracing along the pages, somehow managing to avoid papercuts even as they toyed with the corners, rubbed along the edges, softly caressed the binding. Spain was staring at England’s hands and had been for the past ten minutes, but England hadn’t noticed.

“I know I’ve had some pretty wacky ideas about global warming in the past,” America prefaced his outline of the issue with. “But it’s really time for us to buckle down on this, guys, because it got serious a long time ago and we can’t afford to screw it up anymore. So we have to hit this one hard.”

America slammed his fist down on the table for emphasis. England sucked in a sharp breath. “Hnn.” Oh god. He hoped no one heard that. America certainly didn’t. He was way too intent on saying what he felt needed to be said. What did need to be said, because for the very first time the two were lining up. “So we’re going to leave here with some kind of plan today, no questions asked, and no bullshit!” he exclaimed. “We’re gonna get to it, and I don’t want anything but science! Good, hard science!”

Hard science. Hard science. America hadn’t talked about science in a long time, and now that he was…

Fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

“So let’s break for lunch, and then when we get back we’ll get down to discussion. Everybody eat a lot, ‘cause we’re gonna be here for a while!” Damn it. England couldn’t break for lunch. He couldn’t get up, because science was definitely not the only thing here that was hard anymore.

And damn America for noticing that he wasn’t leaving. He stood around at the front of the room until everyone else was gone, hands in his pockets and kicking his foot idly, and then he sort of sidled over and shoved France’s vacated chair out of the way so that he could half-sit on the table next to England.

Go away, go away, go away. England’s fingers tightened around the binder in his lap. It was the only line of defense he had between America’s potential gaze and his lap, and thus the only thing saving him from possibly lethal embarrassment. Strange, that the threat of it wasn’t doing anything to help his physiological state. Or not strange, because the source of the problem was sitting right there. Please go away.

“Am I doing okay?” America asked suddenly. England had been staring absently at him (not dreamily, absently, there was a difference), and he shook himself a little now.

“Er… what?”

Looking around like someone else might’ve come back in and he was worried they’d overhear the conversation, America hunkered over and said rapidly, “I don’t wanna disappoint my new boss. Everyone’s been working really hard, and he asked me to take this seriously, and I… don’t want to let him down. He even let his chief of staff help me practice the other day.”

Oh. Ohhh. So that would explain it. Seemingly everyone was enamored of America’s new boss. Most of their friends had begged America to wrangle them tickets to balls on the day he took over and used the opportunity to get completely smashed and drunkenly tell America how they’d forgotten what a swell guy he could be sometimes.

And then Romano had gone and tracked down America’s old boss and told him in no few extremely slurred words – and most of them obscene, though England was quite sure that America’s old boss didn’t speak any Italian since he barely even spoke any English – exactly what he’d always thought of him. When America’s old boss failed to remember who Romano even was and finally asked if he was the little fella with the boot, it probably would’ve gotten physical had Spain not caught up and forcibly prevented it.

In any case, yes. Everyone loved America’s new boss, and England had to admit he was personally relieved because sticking by America for the past eight years hadn’t exactly been easy on him, but at the moment… he was a little annoyed. Probably because America was apparently so inspired by the guy that he was buckling down and consciously making a concerted effort to be businesslike and actually take care of what needed to be taken care of in a way that he never had before. No matter how serious world affairs had been in the past, England couldn’t remember America behaving like this. He couldn’t remember him ever admitting to any mistakes, and he was pretty sure that America had done that, directly or indirectly, at least twice this morning, and at the thought he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

But… he was jealous. It had been a very long time since America looked to him the way he looked to his new boss and wanted to please him the same way. A very, very long time. England knew that to a guy like America he didn’t exactly have the most inspiring personality type, mainly because America was more likely to be inspired by things like fireworks and reality TV, but suddenly he wanted to inspire his former protégé. He wanted America to… to…

To stop turning him on, god damn it! England’s hands were sore from where they were coming close to wrinkling an entire stack of papers, and his teeth were grit so hard the hinge of his jaw was beginning to ache.

“So?”

“Uh?” England had been spacing out again. He was looking at America’s neck. He had a very nice neck. All long and soft-looking. And… a nice tie. It wasn’t the sort of tie he usually wore. He must have borrowed it. It was paisley.

“So am I doing all right?”

England looked up at America’s face. He looked so earnest; he always looked earnest. “I think everyone’s impressed,” he said slowly.

“Nobody’s hit me yet,” America said, looking thoughtful and somewhat pleased, but he added, “I want to know if you’re impressed, though.”

Fuck you, you bastard. England drew a long breath through his nose. Damn it, he was so turned on his pants were getting to be painful. This was ridiculous. Ridiculous. He thought about lying, but America looked in that moment like his entire self-worth hinged on England’s opinion of his attempt to be a responsible adult. England couldn’t remember ever getting that look from him. And that… just… oh god, like he hadn’t already been short of breath. He made a strangled noise that he managed to turn into, “Yes. I think you’re doing great. Brilliant. You’re so on top of things I want—” Fuck, I want you on top of me. “I mean, it makes me—” So horny I’m ready to say fuck this summit so I can go fuck you instead. “Damn it. I’m… proud of you.”

The number of times England had said that to America since their split could easily be counted on one hand. It wasn’t that he wasn’t. It was just that it wasn’t usually the sort of thing he’d admit without a gun to his head.

“You… are?” Hnn. America looked good when he quirked one eyebrow like that. Why hadn’t England ever noticed before?

“Of course I am, you dolt. I did a good job raising you.”

It didn’t seem to matter to America if the compliment was a little bit backhanded. “Geez, England, I, uh… didn’t expect you to go that far. But thanks. It means a lot to me, especially since we’re always at—are you okay?”

England realized that he was staring at America’s neck again. He swallowed, licked his lips. “Your tie is crooked.” It wasn’t. It was perfect. Just like the perfect little geometric interlocking rows of paisley on it.

“Can you fix it?” Oh hell. England nodded mutely, and he nearly stood up to do it, but then he remembered that he couldn’t stand up.

“Damn,” he breathed, and then he quickly cut off anything America might have been about to say by adding, “Come here.”

America was such a dope, England thought. He didn’t even look mildly confused as to why England was so insistent on remaining in his seat. He just scooted over closer to England and leaned forward. England had already been blushing (and America, of course, hadn’t noticed), but now he felt like he was on fire, and he was surely turning bright red. He reached up, noticing as he did that his fingers were trembling just slightly. Slowly his hands wrapped around America’s tie, and before he knew what he was doing, he was asking, “So you said you were wrong about global warming?”

“Hey, we have a lot of scientists who’ve been at the forefront of—”

“Policy, America. Was your policy right or wrong?”

America’s eyes were wide. England’s were half-lidded. “It… it was wrong. We’re changing it.”

The noise that got out of England obviously surprised America. Apparently a soft keening wasn’t quite the response he was expecting. England pulled America down a bit closer, and America’s eyes got wider. He was rapidly forgetting to care about his own behavior. His fingers were beginning to loosen America’s tie of their own accord. “And what other policy changes are you making?”

“It’s not really me,” America insisted. “I mean, I didn’t even make up these files I brought, it was all up to my—”

“I don’t want to hear about your boss!” England interrupted sharply. America’s mouth snapped shut; he was probably quite taken aback at the idea that someone didn’t want to hear about his boss. England stood up, his binder falling to the floor under the table. America sat back, but England still held their faces a matter of inches apart. “I don’t care about your boss. I want you to talk responsible to me.”

America swallowed heavily. His breathing was beginning to pick up. England gave his tie a sharp tug, pulling it looser, and that seemed to jolt America back to speech. Oh, he was so cute in his rare moments of vulnerability. “Health care reform,” he said quietly. “Privatized health care benefits corporations over patients and is one of the biggest drains on the middle class. Affordable universal health care is one of the most significant steps we can take toward repairing our broken economy.”

He sounded like an op-ed in the New York Times. England quivered. “That’s a reasonable goal.” He was practically purring now. America’s tie slid out from under his collar and was relegated to the table or a chair or the floor; England didn’t bother to check which. America did, though.

“England, what are you—” England’s hand came up to grip America’s jaw and force him back to eye contact. England had always been quite fond of America’s eyes. So fond that now he reached up and took off his glasses to set them aside a bit more carefully than he had the tie. “England, I—”

“What else?” England cut him off. “What else are you making changes to?”

From the look that crossed America’s face, it almost seemed like he was ready to demand to know what was going on, but then he blurted out, “Habeas corpus. We’re shutting down Guantanamo and all undisclosed illegal prisons and moving detainees into legal, uh… legal channels.”

“Oh god,” England breathed. He grabbed America by the hips and shoved him back until he was sitting fully on the conference table, and then he was climbing on top of him as he said, “Do you have any idea how reasonable you sound right now?”

When America replied, his voice cracked. “I hope really reasonable, since I was briefed by—”

“I don’t want to hear about anyone briefing you.” England sat down on America, roughly, right on his groin. America swore and England ignored it, because he was too busy grabbing at the front of America’s jacket in an attempt to push it down off his shoulders. “Not when I’m about to debrief you.”

“What?”

America was so thick. So painfully thick. He had England’s very obvious erection digging very obviously into his lower abdomen, and his body was responding and England knew it was because he could feel it, and he still sat there under him and asked what. “Policy, America! Come on!” He rolled his hips. America gasped sharply, eyes slipping shut.

“Fuck! I just… I… Iraq!” England’s breath caught in his throat. Someone had taught America to pronounce Iraq correctly. “We’re pulling out of Iraq!”

“Enough!” England ordered, and he shoved America roughly down onto his back. “I don’t want to hear anything more about pulling out.” America managed to get out about half of England’s name before he was silenced by England’s lips and then by his tongue. It took a moment, but then England felt America’s hands on him.

On his ass, to be more precise. He tried and failed to suppress a shiver that ran down his spine, then tried and succeeded to open the top buttons of America’s shirt without popping them off entirely. When he broke off their kiss, it was with an audible sigh from America but was also only because he was desperate to bite America’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure why, except that he had a thing for biting and America’s neck was asking for it. Taunting him, really.

“How long have—ahh!” America’s hips bucked up helplessly against England’s as sharp teeth closed on the skin just under his left ear, and he drew a couple short breaths before he finished in a taut voice, “How long have you been sitting there with a hard-on?”

“Since you said aggressive diplomacy,” England murmured, punctuating it with little nips and heated kisses down the side of America’s neck. That had been hot, and not just because he previously hadn’t been sure if the word diplomacy was even in American dictionaries anymore.

“Really,” America replied. He was working a leg up between England’s, propping his foot on the table to give him more leverage to grind their lower bodies together. His response wasn’t a question; there was an intrigued note to his tone, rather, like he was thinking that he’d just come across a piece of valuable information he needed to file away for future reference. “You liked that, huh?”

“It made me want to hand myself over to a military junta just so I could be on the receiving end of some,” England admitted readily. He’d admit a lot of things readily to the right person when he was either drunk or being dry humped.

Suddenly, America’s hands were off his ass and on his shoulders and before England could make sense of what was happening he was on his back and all his papers and his bottled water were being shoved to the floor by wayward limbs, and America was on top of him. He blinked, and America grinned. “Receiving end? I can be aggressive.”

Unwillingly, England whimpered. He wasn’t some kind of weeping uke like in the comics Japan was always sending him, but to be honest he liked sex any way he could get it, and he liked the idea of being a receiving end well more than he would’ve wanted to admit. “I… don’t think…” He was reaching down between their bodies with some difficulty, grabbing hold of America’s belt and pulling at it insistently. They were so close, and America was being helpful by lifting his hips but the angle was still awkward, and that only exacerbated the frustration in his voice when he sighed, “We don’t have enough time for that.”

America apparently didn’t think that this while getting trousers open while lying down thing was going as smoothly as it needed to. He sat up and England breathed a sigh of extreme relief when America went for his fly first. He hadn’t been even remotely comfortable in that region (Cornwall, incidentally) in what felt like an eternity.

“That’s okay,” America said quickly. “It’s fine. We’ll have time later.”

England’s eyes widened. Later. They’d have time later. America wanted to do this again later. Bloody hell, as much as he loved here and now, he really loved the word later.

Suddenly barely aware of the fact that America’s hands were trying to work their way into his pants, England pushed himself upright and roughly dragged him down to his own level to kiss him. He wasn’t gentle; America was probably going to have a very bruised lower lip after this was over. And a bruised back possibly as well, because England grabbed him by the front of his shirt and flipped him roughly onto it. America hit the table with a grunt and a stunned look on his face as England straddled him and grabbed him right between the legs.

“Fuck!” America squirmed. He was probably uncomfortable; he was very hard, and England was feeling him up quite mercilessly. England grinned. So what if he was maybe a little enamored of America? It didn’t mean he had to be sweet.

“Later, definitely,” he said. He enjoyed the helpless look on America’s face as his fingers and palm thoroughly mapped out everything they could discern through the fabric of his trousers for a moment, and then right when America opened his mouth – probably to ask him to do what he was about to do anyway – he pulled his belt loose, yanked his fly open, grabbed his hips, and shoved him further back onto the table. This also pushed a lot of objects out of the way. Another bottle of water, this one open, went rolling onto the floor and papers scattered; when the others returned, Estonia’s notes were going to be under Lithuania’s seat, replaced by the stack of happy tomatoes doodled over policy outlines that belonged to Italy.

England needed more room to work, though, without having to back up himself and fall off the table. America was about ready to sit up, but that plan was interrupted by England grabbing hold of his waistband and pulling hard. “Not so fast, cowboy.”

America rolled his eyes. “I hate it when you call me tha—ahhhhgod.”

Really, America always had been too talkative. It turned out that grabbing his cock was a good way to get him to shut up, England noted. Also a good way to get his eyes to nearly fall out of his head, but that was something England wished he could do a bit less frequently. And as much as he would’ve liked to tease him for a while now, they really didn’t have the time, so it was a matter of seconds rather than minutes before his lips and tongue followed his fingers.

And now, as he licked and then sucked and stroked and set a rhythm that increased steadily along with the intensity of his ministrations, England could feel America slowly crumble. He could hear it in the tremor in his voice as he tried to muffle his moans and gasps and feel it in the way his fingers tightened spasmodically where they’d wrapped around locks of England’s hair. England’s arms were resting on America’s thighs, holding him down, and he could feel his legs shifting and straining as best they could; he would’ve grinned at what he was apparently doing to him had his mouth not been otherwise quite thoroughly occupied.

It didn’t take long until America’s hand flew to his mouth and he had to bite down on the fleshy part under his thumb to keep his vocalizations in check; or at least England didn’t think it’d taken long, since his jaw wasn’t sore. He glanced up and felt the corner of his mouth tug back in the slightest of smiles, then quickly turned his attention back to what he was doing, sealing his lips around America and taking as much of him in as possible. A few more good swallows seemed to do it, and he was prepared when America climaxed, both to hold his hips down despite the way he was fighting to arch them up and to swallow everything more or less neatly.

He sat back on his knees and wiped the corners of his mouth as America collapsed back down into a boneless mass on the table in front of him. He couldn’t stop smiling, and he felt a little silly for it. But hey, there was something about a job well done, wasn’t there? He gave America a few seconds, what he considered a very long few seconds, and then leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of America’s head and grinning down at him. “You’re welcome.”

Eyes opening and eyebrows furrowing slightly, America scoffed, “Don’t get me wrong; the smug bastard thing is cute on you, but right now I like you better when you have your trap shut.”

“Is that s—” England never got to finish the thought. America had grabbed his collar and dragged him down and now he had a mouth full of probing tongue; a split second later a hand was pushing its way roughly past the waistband of his boxers to take hold of the erection that had been neglected, in England’s opinion, for way, way too long.

A jolt went through his body, and now was the point at which posturing was irrelevant and England didn’t care if he seemed desperate. He was desperate, damn it. He wanted America quite badly, and maybe someday he’d be caught up in a softer moment and tell him that in so many words, but as for now he just moaned deeply and spread his legs wider, and the way he rocked forward helplessly into America’s hand, wordlessly begging for more, would probably send the right message anyhow.

He wasn’t going to last. At all. He’d been hard half the morning, and America wasn’t pulling any punches now with the way his fingers alternately loosened and tightened again and his thumb teased around England’s head. England didn’t even care that they didn’t have time anymore. He didn’t need time; he didn’t even need anything more than America’s hand. He just needed to get off as soon as possible.

Breaking off the kiss a minute later, America drew a shaky breath and started, “Do you want me to—”

“No,” England said quickly. “Later. Just… keep…” He didn’t bother to finish. He couldn’t hold a thought for that long right now. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head drop, resting the side of his face against America’s jaw and nearly whimpering. Damn it. He was so close. He just needed a little… just…

America turned his head and suddenly bit down on the side of his neck. A sharp pain shot down the tendons there, and before he knew what he was doing, England let out a strangled cry and his body tightened almost painfully as his brain shut down and he came hard into America’s hand.

But that didn’t mean America was going to let up, apparently. England lost track of himself for what felt like much longer than it could’ve been, and even as he came back his body was beginning to tremble and jerk involuntarily as the movements of America’s hand became almost uncomfortably intense. “America…” he whispered (and it most certainly did not come out as a whine).

Obviously because of the totally mature and authoritative tone to his voice, America removed his hand, which allowed England to collapse forward onto him. His breaths were rough and short, and his hands came up to America’s sides and tightened around the fabric of his shirt. “I… damn it, you git.”

“What’d I do?” America asked, not sounding particularly bothered by the name-calling. England lifted his head just in time to see America bring his hand up and lick away the cum that had been smeared along the side of his thumb. It looked utterly casual, but then he looked at England out of the corner of his eyes and a little smirk tugged at his lips. Which were swollen and nicely complimented the pink flush of his cheeks. His hair was a mess. Damn him.

England growled slightly. “Tonight. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be limping your way up handicapped ramps for a week.”

“Really,” America said. He’d missed a spot on his hand, or maybe he hadn’t and was just licking his middle finger to be a jerk. England narrowed his eyes and pushed himself up and off of him, landing hard on his ass and nearly falling as the hand he was going to use to support himself landed on a binder, which slid along with more papers off the table. He swore as America laughed and quickly zipped up his pants so he could at least try to make himself look presentable again before the others returned.

Before he could scoot forward to get back off the table, though, a hand grabbed his collar and he was being pulled back and then kissed, firmly but not at all like before. There was no roughness, no teasing, no lust. There was no ulterior motive in it. It had meaning, and England felt something in the pit of his stomach go all hot and gooey. That took him off guard. He could tell himself that he only wrapped his arms around America’s neck for balance, but that would mean that he’d gone so damn weak he needed help with his balance in the first place, so it wasn’t really any better.

England’s eyes took a moment to flutter open again when America pulled away, and when he did he was on the receiving end of a smile that wasn’t cocky, wasn’t taunting, wasn’t just a bleached accessory for a big hero. It meant something too. Oh, hell. England was melting inside. He was going to start leaking soon.

Things really were changing.