Entitled: Overly Critical
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Length: 1,000 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and etc.
Dedication: For Sam! Worship me.
Notes: Honestly, whenever I see something stupidly American my knee-jerk reaction is to think of England. This happens depressingly often.
Summary: Someone needs to knock a few Chuck Norris jokes into Ye Olde England. — AmericaEngland

"—and that's the lady," America points, and beams, and England shuffles his feet and sniffs a bit because on this side of the Atlantic, the water smells more like bird feces than it does power. Lady Liberty, diminished by distance and fog, stands solemn and—not that England would ever admit it—majestic.

"Botched job. The one in France is better."

"Because she's naked over there?" America tilts his head, impudent, "I bet you'd like that. Mine's classy."

England grumbles into his collar. He always feels so old when he comes to visit America. "You wouldn't know classy if it smacked you in the face."

"Chuck Norris will slap you in the face," America says immediately, and then sniggers for the better part of a minute.

"Was that a joke, or have you developed some mild form of epilepsy?"

"What is that?" England asks, and from his tone, it's clear that he's already decided it to be the worst kind of abomination. America checks, beams, and throws an arm over the slighter man's shoulder. England turns stiff.

"Isn't she cute?" he waves at the young woman, dressed a bit too scantily for December and likely aware of it. She smiles instinctively at her homeland—exaggerated brow line and darkened lips caught between childish and sultry. "She's like Walt's mascot. Well, not the girl. But the costume, anyways—"

"Is it supposed to be a fairy?" England splutters, "Are you joking?"

"She's Tinkerbell, duh," America rolls his eyes, catches sight of the hotdog stand, and begins moving towards it as though magnetically drawn. England is dragged in his wake.

"Tinkerbell?" he repeats, and then, "You bastardized Peter Pan?"

"Uh," America orders three of everything, "We can go halfsies on the sequel?"

England sets his hands around his former colony's throat with a sense of great purpose.

England eats his hotdog without the bun, which for some reason—oh, he knows why—has America laughing every time they make eye contact. Or, at least until something new comes along to distract him.

"Oh," America catches his breath, and then starts jumping up and down, waving his hands, "Look! It's my girlfriend!"

England coughs. "Sorry?"

"Oh, guess I didn't tell you," America pushes up his glasses, face bright and shining and somehow decidedly younger, "The others skanked it out, so I had to let them go. And anyway, she makes it a party in the USA."

England stares.

And then England gets it.

And then he says, "No."

"This movie is garbage," England says after the first five minutes. He eats some popcorn and doesn't share his armrest. America, likely due to his recent penchant towards psychoanalysis, knocks it up to reverse-psychology and slurps his drink, blissfully unaware.

"Yeah, whatever. It's okay, England, your knights have…what's the word…they're like collector's items!"

It takes England a moment to decipher this nonsense, "Are you implying that your Jedos—"


"Whatever. And they're not. My knights were—are—very important."

"O-kay," America holds up his hands like, sheesh, "But the Jedi are still way cooler."

"They're imaginary."

America whips out the most infuriating sigh of them all; the paternal kind, "So are the fairies, England."

"Now, see here," England yelps, and then lowers his voice with a flush when the rest of the theater hisses, "The two are completely different, and—"

"I don't believe in fairies!" America sings.

And so England has to hit him.

"You broke my glasses," America whines later, but it isn't until he's tripped over three small children that England starts steering him around. "Poor Texas. This is just like the last presidential election."

England ignores him, which only means that America has more time to whine. "Now I'm going to be left-handed again, damn it."

"You've got contacts, haven't you?" England mutters, as he absolutely refuses to feel guilty. America makes a truly pathetic face.

"But my eyes are my social policies! I'd rather not touch them."

"That's your fault."

"Now, America, you just sit there and I'll get your spare lenses for—why is there a picture of a moose on your mantle?"

"It's Canada!"

England has no idea how to respond to this other than, "Didn't there used to be some blonde woman there instead?"

"You mean Marilyn," America says, and pauses, and looks a bit as though he might cry. England panics, and after several seconds of fretting, gets the glasses perched on the rim of the sink. The rims are noticeably thicker.

He starts out tentatively, "America—"

But America's already dancing wildly to the Beatles, and England remembers this song quite well, enough to smile a bit and cross his arms and watch.

"Best band ever," America says while he knocks over a lamp. England smirks.


America makes a face, "Killjoy."

He's not terribly sorry to say goodbye, because he can only take so much America at once and even then it tends to be too much—but America is, even if he does a good job of hiding it, and so in a rare moment of affection, England musters his courage and claps his arms around America and—grits his teeth.

It is, of course, a very manly hug.

"Guh, creep," America shrugs England off the dock.

Water tastes different on this side of the Atlantic, too.