America Is An Anglophile: Or, How England Received The Shock of His Life

It was a lovely day at America's place. The sun was out, there were few clouds in the sky, and there was a balmy ocean breeze blowing in from the Caribbean.

England, who was visiting America's home on diplomatic business, was admiring the beautiful weather. It was such a change from his own country's bouts of summer rain, and it refreshed him greatly. He inhaled deeply the sweet air; unfortunately, a bus chose that moment to drive by and let out a puff of exhaust. England ended up coughing and hacking on his hands and knees on the sidewalk, earning him a few curious stares from passersby.

As soon as England recovered, he got to his feet and tried to find his bearings. While the day was beautiful in all respects, he was somewhat lost in America's capital. He HAD been expecting a certain country to pick him up at the airport, per their usual arrangement, but for some reason America had been a no-show, forcing England to navigate DC alone.

Frustrated with the incomprehensible bus schedule, confused by the DC subway, and scared to death of driving on the right side of the road in DC traffic, England had decided to walk. So far, things had been going pretty good, but the Briton was now at a loss. Which way to go? North or south?


Three hours later, and England was definitively defeated. His dress shoes were pinching his toes, his hair had gotten into, and was itching, his eyes, and his tweed suit was sticking to him in all sorts of awkward ways and places.

But the nightmare was coming to an end! There was America's house!


Where was America in all of this? Deep within his house, away from the Presidential family's quarters, away from the museum aspect of the place, far, faaaaaar away from the media, who would only ask him bothering questions, watching his DVDs with a spaced out grin on his face. All the lights were off, all the blinds pulled down, the only illumination coming from the screen America was so fixated with.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, knocking him out of his stupor. There stood England, framed by the bright light, looking like he had been through a tornado.


"E-england? Aw, crap, what time is it?"


Just then, a laugh track cut in, and England abruptly shut up. He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was eerily calm.

"America, have you been watching TV all day long?"


"Because if you have," England's face brightened into the scariest grin America had ever seen on anyone, including Russia. "Why then, America, I would have to KILL YOU."

America yelped in terror, and he darted to the other side of his darkened room.

"Please, England, I just lost track of time! I just love this show so much! Don't huuuuuuurt meeeeeee~! I've got so much to give!"

England took a sharp step into the room, and was about to launch himself at the cowering country, when his foot came down on something that went "crunch."

"What the—"

It was a plate of (dare he believe it?) fish and chips.

England was dumbfounded. America had been eating some of his food? Without gagging, complaining, or Americanizing it as only he could?

It was then that England noticed the room for the first time. It seemed…rather oddly decorated.

Oh sure, there were stacks of Captain America and Superman comics in the corner, a large American flag hanging over his bed, and general red, white, and blue motif going on, as he fully expected. What he didn't expect was the CD rack filled with the Beatles, the Who, the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, and several other British invasion bands. Nor did he expect to see scattered on the floor various Discworld books or Sandman comics. Or the wall poster of The Doctor. Or the Union Jack bedspread. Or The Complete Works of William Shakespeare taking up a great deal of shelf space on his mostly empty bookcase, along with The Mighty Boosh and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy boxsets. Or the entire Harry Potter series stacked in a pile right by the bookcase, as if America read them too often to bother putting them back up.

Even the TV show still currently playing on America's widescreen TV was British, as England instantly recognized it as Red Dwarf. In front of the TV was The Rocky Horror Picture Show DVD, as well as plates of half-eaten fish and chips and tin containers of curry vindaloo and pompadoms.

England wished America would say something, as he was too busy staring about in a mixture of horror and awe. He was…a little flattered, actually, but there were so many examples of his own culture strewn around the room. It almost made America look like he was obsessed with him. But that couldn't be true! Could it?

America noticed how England took into account his stuff, and turned a lovely shade of beet red.

"Well. I guess the secret's out. The truth is," America took a deep breath, and made eye contact with a slightly flustered England. "I'm a complete Anglophile."

England was frozen in place. What? Had he heard correctly?

"Yes. It's true. I…just love your culture so much!"America had been holding this back for a while, and now it burst out of him like water from a broken dam. "I love your books, your authors are just so funny and full of sarcasm, and your TV shows are equal parts hilarious and strange and amazing, and the music, God, I'll never get over the British invasion, or the punk rock movement, the stuff that comes out nowadays is nowhere near as good, and have I mentioned how much I love your junk food, your version of Indian takeout is just phenomenal, and—"

England felt his cheeks heat up.

"—usually I don't have this much crap lying around, I was going to clean up before you got here, but I was right in the middle of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and then after that was finished I had to watch the director's cut, and then Red Dwarf was just calling me, and I guess I've been watching this stuff a lot more since I heard you were planning on visiting and all, and—"

"America? Do me a favor and shut it for a second so I can reboot my brain."

America looked like he had more to say, but he obediently trailed off into silence at the look on England's face. He resembled a man who had been told the story of Santa Claus was real for most of his life only to have someone tell him otherwise, shattering his childhood.

After a while, America spoke once more, this time a bit more subdued and unsure, rare for the country with a confidence streak a mile long. "England? Are you mad at me?"

England mutely shook his head.

"Are you…disturbed? God, you must think I'm some sort of obsessed lunatic or something."

At this England smiled. "I do think you're an absolute loon, but that has nothing to do with you fancying my culture."

America shot the Briton a shaky smile. "Yeah, just your culture, that's all that I fancy." Oh, who was he kidding? "Listen, England, there's something else I have to tell ya."

"You're pregnant." The Brit deadpanned, getting a chuckle out of his companion.

"Nah, that alien probe was a fluke after all." England snorted appreciatively, and America flashed a winsome smile before his tone turned serious.

"See, the thing is," America rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous fashion. "The thing is, England, that for a while now I've had a bit of a crush on you. Not just your culture. You."

America expected protests, perhaps even an embarrassed return confession. What he got was total silence.

"England? England, are you okay?"

No answer. America slowly ventured forth to where his crush was standing stock still. "England? Helloooooooooooo~? Anybody home?" America gently knocked on England's forehead.

Next thing he knew, he was spinning onto his bed, having been punched in the jaw by England. America rubbed at his face in astonishment for a few seconds, before leaping back to his feet.

"What the hell was that for, you jerk?" he yelled, getting all up in England's face.

England's only response to that was to grab the back of his head and pull him down into a ferocious smooch.

Now it was America's turn for shock. All of the energy and anger that had been flowing through him simply drained away. His entire body went numb, except for his lips, which grew hyper-aware. Holy hell, England was kissing him.

Holy hell, England had just bitten his bottom lip!

The biting of the bottom lip was enough of a wake up call for America to snap out of his shock and really start to return the favor bestowed upon him. With great gusto.

As the end credits for Red Dwarf started playing on the TV whilst the two continued to make out America couldn't help but think that he really was an Anglophile. In more ways than one.


Author's Note: So, er, yeah. First submission to the fandom fail enough? Honestly though, I love this pairing to death, and I had to write SOMETHING for it. 'Sides, I'm kinda like America in that I suck at geography/world history, so yeah. No writing any other cultures for me. For now at least...