America ground his teeth despite his laugh—which was much too loud and obviously fake, how did anyone not notice?—and glared at the cab driver.

"I'd tap that," he grinned, eyeing the drunken blond who scrunched his eyebrows together in a solemn moment before laughing and sliding lower in his seat. America's blood boiled and bubbled and burned. "Where'm I taking him?"

Someone else's eyes were tracing England's every move for the millionth fucking time that day. America really had to wonder if there wasn't some type of conspiracy going on because he hadn't noticed anyone hitting on England before, and he was sure that he'd spend enough time with England to know it was true. But, God, the stupid nation was too goddamn drunk to notice the attention he was getting. And even when he wasn't drunk, he was just too dense.

America clenched his fists and tried not to claw at the driver's face, as he himself was red with unexplainable anger—or was it just heat, yes, it was just abnormally hot there with the breeze on the street by the open cab door—surging through his body.

He frowned, and it was not because England's supposedly casual sweater vest was sliding up and giving the stupid driver a fucking show of his stupidly deliciously agonizingly pale stomach. That damn, untrustworthy, pervert of a taxi driver was hitting on a poor, drunken, defenseless elderly man. Because England was, like, a thousand years old, and no one could really want that.

That was why heroes, America, existed. They had to keep perverted cab drivers from bothering Englands.

A few seconds that felt like hours passed before America smiled with false innocence and slid into the car next to England. He was a hero, after all. Heroes helped old ladies cross streets, or, in this case, a particularly blond old man back to his hotel.

"America!" he slurred as soon as the door slammed. Leaning over and latching his hands to America's shirt, he demanded, "Why'd you leave me?"

"I'm right here." America glanced at the taxi driver whose eyes were molesting England through the mirror.

"No," England grumbled, moody as he always was when intoxicated. "Why'd you have to be so bloody independent?" The cab driver seemed quite interested in America's answer, but his eyes were focused on the green-eyed man basically fondling America's lap.

As a hero, he couldn't exactly stop England from making his own decisions. Heroes dealt with the aftermath.

"You know why," he said tiredly, fixing Texas on the bridge of his nose and wrapping his arm around England—protectively, for heroes had to protect the innocent from being raped and murdered in alleys, which couldn't possibly happen to little ol' England while America was around—to prove a point to the driver.

"Could've beat your little rebellion to a pulp, you know," England nodded, fingers splaying out across America's thigh as he leaned forward. America had heard England's words before, but he didn't like the idea of a stranger knowing them. "Then you'd still belong to—" America covered England's mouth with his hand, wet lips pressing against his skin.

He could remember those same deliciously soft lips kissing him to sleep when he was younger.

"Drive!" America snapped suddenly. England slapped America away as the driver coughed—hopefully embarrassed for hitting on the innocent little old man on America's lap—and sped up. "It's the hotel on Second."

Music was the only sound in their cab for the next few minutes. England was dozing off on America's arm, cutting off circulation and making him numb while the driver shot deadly glares in America's direction and lusty looks in England's.

It was a painful ride, America decided, as he used his free arm to touch England's hair.

"Mmm. . ." England mumbled something incoherent and shifted his position a little, resting comfortably against America's chest. Heat surged through America's body. It was snuggling, almost, but America was a hero and couldn't think of England that way.

"If you don't want him, I'll treat him right," the driver said, lowering the volume on the radio and giving America the look. Blinking in utter disbelief, America felt his grip on England tighten considerably. "I'll treat him right," he insisted again.

He blinked again, defensive in his tone when he muttered, "The hell makes you think I don't treat him right? Why do you want him?"

"Look at him, man." The car stopped in front of a traffic light just as the meter went up and America owed the driver another ten dollars. "How could I not want that?" Pervert, America's mind screamed.

England's hand grasped America's shirt tightly, again, and America looked down at the man against his chest. Messy blond hair met his eyes, messy blond hair on a man with dark, thick eyebrows and a sweet little lopsided smile. His heart lurched, and America felt a rushed jumble of thoughts try and force their way out of his mouth. Thankfully, none of America's incoherent opinions left his mouth.

Nations didn't age the same way humans did. England really wasn't that old.

"You hear what I'm sayin'?" the driver demanded, turning a corner.

But England wasn't attractive either, America decided. It didn't matter that the two girls at England's hotel thought it—

(Hey, who's your friend? Him? Yeah. He's not interested. Oh. Well, tell him we said 'hi.')

—and France thought it—

(Surely you noticed, America, that England garners much attention. Huh? Whatcha mean, France?)

—and those random people on the street thought it—

(Americans have no manners. I don't get it. They keep whistling. Oh. England, that means. . .)

—and the server at the bar thought it—

(Hey, this drink's on me. Why? You seem kind of down.)

—and now this taxi driver thought it. No, it didn't matter because it wasn't true. And heroes always searched for the truth and justice in everything.

"Why do you think he's. . . good-looking?" The words seemed foreign on his mouth. England was at one point his caretaker, his older brother; it had never occurred to America that in others' minds, England was a potential love interest. He was just England.

The driver grinned, taking the opportunity to turn around and eye England in the crotch. America growled and protectively covered England—moved England's leg and then used his own hand—as best he could, which, as a hero, meant he was successful.

Sighing wistfully, the man continued, "He has an innocent face, you know? Big eyes, pink lips, flushed face—God, can't you imagine what his expressions would be if I fuc—"

"No." The driver served to prove to America that the people of his country were perverts. Surely the others—with the exception of France, who was the very definition of perverted—hadn't thought of England that way when they saw him. "Don't you think his eyebrows. . ." his voice trailed off; the argument was weak anyway.

The driver laughed as the price for the ride went up again. "Look good on him." He seemed relaxed, almost at peace despite the large amount of alcohol in his system. "What's his name, anyway?"

"You don't need to know." America frowned, relief washing over him as soon as England's hotel came into view.

"I can't have him then." It wasn't a question, but America shook his head in response anyway. The car slowed and stopped near the entrance, which, because it was so late, was empty. Nevertheless, the light at the entrance was still on.

"How much?" America slid from the seat and out of the car, leaning back in to drag England rather ungracefully from the taxi. The jerking movements and the fact that his leg slammed against the partially opened door brought England back to consciousness.

America paid the cab driver the ridiculous amount of money that left his wallet considerably lighter. "Fuck," England swore as he brought a hand to his head and blinked rapidly in a way of composing himself. The driver winked and America felt his face flush; he quickly turned to face his companion.

The stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment before England smiled bitterly. "I'll have a ruddy hangover in the morning." He turned to walk into the building. America took in the way he held his shoulders, the small swing of his hips as he started to retreat, the curve of his back and his small stature. He noticed the way the breeze picked up some of his hair, which had been soft against his hand.

And maybe England wasn't that old. And maybe England wasn't that innocent.

America grabbed England by the arm before either was aware he was falling.

Hmm, well this is my first Hetalia fic, and I basically stole the classic drunk!England plot device. Plus, I fail at British slang and overused the word 'pervert' because I don't know another word for it. *is shot*

I definitely didn't get their characters right, but I still like how it came out. Thanks for reading!^^