Disclaimer: WE OWN NOTHING BUT OUR OBSCENE AMOUNT OF OCS. SO THERE.

A/N: …Hey, guys, we're alive. 8D


Just as any other day in the Jones household, the day started off normal enough. Except for the fact that it was pouring rain out and California was on the phone with Poland to talk about why Stacey got killed on The Loved and the Loveless…well, hey, she didn't have to pay the phone bill at the end of the month.

America had gone off earlier that morning in a rush; apparently, he had forgotten something important that he was supposed to do. When North Dakota asked where he was going (as America zipped up his signature bomber jacket and chewed a mouthful of blueberry waffle), the self-proclaimed hero simply said, "I'll explain later!"

The states were actually mildly troubled by this. America never just dashed off like that, especially without explanation. Well, except when he realized he was late to watch the new episode of Glee. Then he just ran upstairs and didn't come back for a while (or during a commercial to get a tub of ice cream). A few concerned states sat around the coffee table in the living room.

"He probably forgot there was a world meeting today or something," Florida suggested, petting Fluffy the alligator, who was seated in her lap. Most people would have been somewhat alarmed by this. Most people are not America's states.

"No, he didn't sufficiently complain about paperwork enough," Massachusetts pointed out.

"Why won't this thing open?" Alabama said, rather frustrated, as he struggled with a jar of salsa for the open bag of chips on the table. His knuckles were now white from trying to pull the lid off.

"…Damien, you're gonna hurt yourself." Texas blinked, watching Alabama's battle with an inanimate object. "Just let me do it."

"I can do it myself!" Alabama protested, stubborn as hell. He set the jar down on his lap to shake his hands, which looked like they hurt at this point.

"I bet he realized we're out of burgers," New York said, boredom evident in his tone. He took a sip of coffee. As he did, an irritated-looking Alabama got up, taking the jar with him, into the kitchen.

"He looked like he was late, though." Massachusetts raised an eyebrow. New York shrugged.

Alabama then returned with the salsa and set it down. Only this time, he was wielding a hammer. Before anyone had time to protest, he hit the side of the jar with it, successfully getting salsa and broken glass all over the side of the table and the floor. He grinned self-victoriously. The other states around the table were speechless.

"…Oh, well, that's one way to get it open," Florida said slowly, reaching over a taking a chip from the bag, dipping it in the salsa. She ate it as New York gave her some sort of unreadable expression that was likely along the lines of what the hell?

"What?" Florida asked, which was oh-so-ladylike with her mouth full of chip and salsa.

It was at that moment when the door swung open in a manner that could have only been done so by Alfred F. Jones. And if there was any doubt that it was him, it was removed when the all-too familiar voice called out, "KIDS, I'M HOME! Heh, I've always wanted to do that."

"Where were you?" New York asked.

"…Well."

Then the states noticed there was a certain bushy-browed Englishman behind him, not looking too thrilled to be there at the moment, and he had a suitcase with him. America guessed now was a good time to call a family meeting before he proved the fangirls right all along.


All of the states found themselves crowded on the tons of couches in the living room (because, as we've stated before, those things need to seat fifty-something people) and the floor as America explained what in the hell was going on. He also hadn't noticed the salsa on table, which the states had all silently agreed not to point out until he noticed it himself, just to see how long it would take. England had gone to put his things in the guestroom.

"There's this really big meeting thing in a few days," America explained, "And Iggy needed a place to stay. The hotel he usually stays at is under renovations right now, and the other places are all booked up. It was either this or sharing a room with France."

"…So he'll be here for a few days?" Indiana asked.

"YEP!" America grinned. "And I had to pick him up at the airport this morning, but I forgot and just barely made it. So that's what happened this morning."

The states seemed just as thrilled as England with this news. Actually, the disdain was more from the Original Thirteen; the rest of the states didn't seem too bothered (with the exception of notably Vermont). Sure, the Revolution was years ago; but that didn't stop the memories from flooding back whenever they looked at England. It wasn't even just the Revolution; there was the War of 1812 among others.

This news especially bothered Massachusetts.


"Alfred." England's tone clearly indicated that he was not in the best of moods. "I believe this belongs to you."

America spun around to see England, holding a very angered-looking Massachusetts by the back of his shirt. Oddly enough, his blond hair had been darkened with soot. He was clad in fringed deerskins, his pale face was painted with what could only be war-paint, and he had stuck a white feather in his hair. He was dressed as an Indian—and it was a pretty clever disguise, if Alfred did say so himself. The young boy had his arms folded, and he was looking over his shoulder and glaring daggers at England.

"Linus?" America blinked. "What happened?"

"Your son," England was practically restraining himself from yelling, "Dumped crate-loads of tea into the bloody harbor!"

"…Seriously? GOOD JOB- I mean, uh, bad boy." America's grin had faded when he realized he was supposed to be upset. Really, he wasn't. He was proud.

"ALFRED!" England said sharply. "Don't you dare encourage this!"

"You were asking for it, jerk!" Massachusetts made a move to elbow England's chest, but the latter narrowly avoided this and handed the boy over to America to prevent himself from getting physically harmed. "If you won't let us have a say in the way you run things, we shouldn't have to pay for your messes!"

"That 'mess' was to protect ungrateful brats like you!" England snapped.

"We didn't ask for your protection!" Massachusetts stuck out his tongue while America shushed him, trying to prevent further rage from a very pissed off European.

"Alfred." England turned his attention back to the boy's father, attempting to regain himself; but he was still seething with anger. "He'll have to be punished for this. This isn't the first time he's acted out like this."

"You can't-"

America was cut off when England abruptly left the room, uncharacteristically slamming the door behind him. Massachusetts stuck his tongue out after him; had he been like his older self, he would have been flipping England off.

"Jerk!"


"Couldn't we have just left him to fend for himself against France?" Rhode Island asked. "I mean, he's just going to nag us and be grumpy for the next…however many days he has to be here."

"…Unless we screw with him." New Hampshire suddenly had this evil grin spread across his face, one that could only mean something was going to go down that would not end well for the Englishman in question. Vermont sighed, but was secretly more than looking forward to New Hampshire's plans.

"Could we not…? What's the point in starting trouble?" asked Nebraska, a quieter, mild-mannered boy of about fifteen, who was seated next to Kansas. He had light brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles, and wore his plaid shirt open over a green t-shirt. "It'll just get him mad."

"You're no fun, Aiden," Ohio said, only half-teasing. He stood up and gestured to New Hampshire. "If Robert wants to screw with England, we're going to screw with England."

"You asshole, Dad's right there!" Michigan pointed to America. "You don't make these sorts of plans-"

"I didn't hear anything~!" America winked.

Ohio grinned and oh-so-maturely stuck his tongue out at Michigan. Michigan responded by flipping him off.

At that moment, England himself emerged from the guestroom down the hall. He was dressed in the usual green sweater vest, like any of the states expected differently. He had a newspaper folded under his arm and walked over towards his oversized "family".

"Alfred, do you have any- the bloody hell is that on your table?"

Arthur Kirkland motioned to the salsa from Alabama's…creative use of a hammer all over the table. Some of the states giggled, others were anxiously awaiting America's reaction. Others were cursing England for having pointed it out.

Alabama grinned. "Well, ya see-"

"HOLY SHIT! TABLE'S BLEEDING!" America exclaimed loudly, his eyes widening in fear. "I HAVE TO GO CALL MATTIE AND BLOG ABOUT THIS."

England smacked his forehead, wondering for about the second time that day where he had gone wrong with America.


Later that night, after England had gone to bed due to jetlag and America was blogging about his magical bleeding table, a group of states had gathered in New Hampshire's room for an impromptu meeting that was codenamed "Operation Earl Gray". In Michigan's humble opinion, whoever had come up with that name deserved to be smacked. Unfortunately, it wasn't Ohio.

"Right, so-" New Hampshire gestured towards Vermont, who had been appointed 'the one who writes all the stuff down.' She was sitting in a chair with a notepad and a pen, surveying the group who had shown up. "Any ideas on how to screw with England?"

"If you take any personal stabs at each other, I'm personally going over there and kicking you." Vermont said, shooting a particular look at Michigan and Ohio. She didn't particularly scare either of them, but she could kick hard.

"Well, what does he hate the most?" Nevada asked.

"France?" Rhode Island suggested.

"Besides him!"

"…Everything Dad does?"

Clearly, this line of conversation was getting nowhere.

New Hampshire gave a frustrated sigh. "Now that we've established the obvious." He looked over the group, looking for a victi- er, volunteer. "Hey, Michael! Any ideas?"

Connecticut looked up from the book that he was reading. He didn't even want to be there- he had better things to do with his time than think up was to screw with his grandfather figure. He was only there because Rhode Island had dragged him, and because he was a bit of a pushover at that. "What?"

"Any ideas for messing with England?"

"No."

"C'mon, you have to have something." New Hampshire frowned. "England's the reason you're half-blind, you have to want some kind of revenge for that."

Connecticut froze.

New Hampshire was right; England was the reason he no longer had vision in his left eye, which was usually covered by his light blonde hair. It was an old, old injury, back from the Revolution; and there was a reason he wore his hair over it. Around his bad eye was a faded burn scar.


Maryland exited the medical tent, sighing a little. Maybe volunteering to be the family's war doctor wasn't the best idea he ever had.

The sun was setting, though the air still held thick with anxiety. The war wasn't going well- what were they thinking, challenging the greatest army in the world? They weren't thinking. Well, they were, but not logically. New York had pointed that out multiple times, not wanting to get involved in the war at all. Massachusetts had yelled at him, but that was nothing new.

He took a seat next to Rhode Island around the dying campfire. The smaller colony was poking it half-heartedly with a stick; his blue eyes didn't seem as lively and stubborn as they usually did.

"…Hey, Charlie," Maryland offered.

"Andrew." Rhode Island nodded a little. He coughed into his hand, continuing to poke the fire. "…Probably needs another log or something."

"Likely," Maryland replied.

"How's Michael?"

"…His eye is injured pretty badly." Maryland said after a pause. He knew Connecticut and Rhode Island were very close, even when they argued. He didn't necessarily want to drop the bad news- not like this. But he couldn't avoid it. "…I don't know if he'll see out of it again."

Rhode Island like out a frustrated sigh, poking the fire more. "…What happened, again? Mass told me this morning, but he was in a hurry."

"…Do you know where we were getting a lot of our supplies from?"

"…Danbury, Connecticut, right- oh."

Maryland nodded. "…The British found out, looted, and burned it. You can probably figure out the rest."

Rhode Island tightly clenched his fist, dropping the stick he had been prodding the fire with. "…We're not going to let England get away with this."


Of course, the city had been rebuilt, and his scar was pretty faded by now, but he was still half-blinded from the incident. Connecticut didn't really mind talking about it, and he didn't hold an insane grudge against England for it- winning the Revolution was revenge enough for him. The Nutmeg State sighed, closing his book.

"…No, that's just stupid and it would make me no better than him."

New Hampshire scoffed. "You're no fun."

Connecticut went back to his book when South Dakota spoke up. "What if North and I switched just to mess with him?"

"…No offense, but no one would really notice," Ohio said, "You two are kind of exactly identical."

"Minnesota says we look nothing alike." South Dakota blinked. "And I have a scar on my knee, Jasp doesn't!"

"Can you please call me by my full names?" North Dakota, who was sitting next to him, sighed. Both boys looked almost exactly alike- both had messy brown hair and blue eyes. They had pale skin, dressed similarly, and had the same facial structure. However, when South Dakota was wearing shorts, it was possible to tell them apart by the wound on his knee. "Jasper or North Dakota. And Minnesota doesn't know nothing about anything."

"…Was that even proper English, Jasp?"

As you could see, this meeting wasn't going anywhere.

New Hampshire opened his mouth to say something when all of a sudden, California, who was petting Hollywood (her white, yappy purse-dog) and twirling a strand of her dyed blonde hair on her index finger spoke up. "What about, like, using water?"

The whole room went silent. Evil grins spread across many faces.


The next morning started off normally enough for England. He opened the door to the bathroom to find a fairly sizable alligator sleeping in the bathtub. He blinked several times and was about to say some sort of profanity, but then realized he was in America's house, and therefore, this was perfectly acceptable.

With a sigh, he figured he'd take a shower upstairs. If could remember where the upstairs bathrooms were…

He walked into the kitchen (which was just down the hall and through a door), hoping to find someone who didn't hate him that would be so kind as to show him where one of the bathrooms were. There was only one person in the kitchen; Oregon. He was a more Native American-looking boy with green eyes and a beaver on his head.

In America's house, you learn not to ask questions.

"Jason," England said, remembering Oregon's human name as he approached the boy, "Where are one of the upstairs bathrooms?"

"Up the stairs and make a right. End of the hall."

Nodding his thanks, England went upstairs, following Oregon's directions. There were lots of doors which obviously led to various states' rooms; some were labeled, some weren't. The second floor had been allocated to about fifteen states (the original fourteen, Maine, and Vermont), and due to this, it was not as crowded as some of the higher floors. Baseballs and books littered the hallway, and England wondered if it had ever occurred to them to pick up after themselves.

But what disturbed him was that it was eerily silent. For a house of fifty-something people, it should be much louder. Hell, it hadn't even been this quiet when there had been only fourteen people. The only things he could hear were the creaking of floorboards and a TV on in one of the rooms, stating the weather in DC.

They must still be sleeping, England told himself. He took a step towards the bathroom door when he felt something wet crash into his back. Thankfully, he was still in his nightclothes and not his suit or sweater.

Of course, the silence had been too good to be true.

"What in the bloody hell?" England turned to see the remains of what appeared to be a balloon on the ground, and a rather amused Vermont. She smiled innocently. "I didn't do anything, Grandpa."

"ELIZA BONNEFO-"

England cut himself off when he felt more wet things- water balloons- crashing into his back. He turned, rightfully pissed off, to see about fifteen states, whom he knew weren't fans of his. New Hampshire grinned and waved.

"WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL-"

England was cut off once again by Massachusetts, who just so happened to be walking by with a rather thick book under his arm and a cup of coffee (more than likely Dunkin Donuts) in his other hand. He looked at the scene before him, sighing and shaking his head.

"The hell didn't you guys use the Super-soakers?" He asked, and then proceeded to go downstairs to make himself toast.

"…WE HAVE SUPERSOAKERS?" New Hampshire smacked his forehead. "GODDAMN MASSHOLE."

England was seething. "WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

"It was funny?" Ohio offered. "And relax, we planned this so you wouldn't be dressed yet or showered. Fluffy usually sleeps upstairs, we had Florida put him downstairs so you'd come up here to get assaulted before you got ready."

Oh good, England's grandchildren were evil masterminds…just what he needed. He opened his mouth to reprimand them more when America walk by, obviously having heard all the commotion.

"AMERICA. LOOK WHAT YOUR CHILDREN DID."

America looked from his states to England, then back to his states, then to the remains of water balloon on the hallway floor.

"'Morning, England!"


A/N: Hey guys, Reaper here! Happy belated Canada Day and early Fourth of July! Jabberwock and I apologize for the gap between updates- we've both had school and other crazy things, but now we're on summer break, so I can nag Jabberwock about this fic all I want and not feel guilty- I mean, we can update more. We're releasing the Christmas chapter in August to keep in the true spirit of Hetalia.

Also, thank you all so much for all your kind reviews! We'd personally hug you all if the internet had the ability to do that. Maybe someday. Also, we're going to be writing that promised Civil War fic, and as proof, have a preview!

(Hey, guys, this is Jabberwock here in the italics and parentheses. Because I'm freaking awesome like that. Haha, no, just kidding. But I'm so sorry we've waited so long to update, and I do take most of the blame for it. Next chapter will come out soon, as we're already planning plots, and I PROMISE that we'll actually update soon. Now, onto the preview!)

COMING SUMMER 2011: "INSERT GENERIC HETALIA CIVIL WAR FIC TITLE HERE"!

"Ohio!" Michigan cried, trying to make himself louder than the roar of gunfire and the pounding rain to get the other's attention. His dark blue uniform was drenched, and his face was streaked with blood and dirt- whose blood was it? It was impossible to say.

Ohio turned to see what Michigan wanted just in time for Ohio to catch view of something, his eyes widening. He had just enough time to scream, "WILL, YOU ASS, DUCK!"

Michigan didn't even have time to ask Ohio what in the hell he was talking about before he felt something blunt hit the back of his head- hard. His world went black as he fell to the ground, hitting it with a thud as the sight before Ohio was forever burned into his memories.

Standing over him was a woman dressed in a tattered gray Confederate uniform. Her black hair, which had once primly curled in ringlets around her face, was matted with blood which was not her own. Her gray eyes were spiteful, almost gleeful. She held a gun in her right hand.

It was pointed straight at Michigan's head.