Let's Rodeo

England smiled in anticipation as the cab rolled up in front of a stately Victorian home. The world meeting was still over a week away, and he'd arrived early to surprise America. His thick eyebrows creased downwards in confusion to see a truly hideous vehicle in the driveway. The truck looked as though it was a run-away from a monster show. What was worse, it was painted the most eye-shocking shade of orange that England had ever had the misfortune to see.

"The house with the huge truck?" the driver asked. Puzzled (and praying the horrendous vehicle was not America's new hobby) England confirmed their destination. The cab rolled to a stop and England collected his bags, eying the house warily.

He was right to do so; the second his carefully polished shoe touched the driveway, the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the normally peaceful neighborhood. Clearly recognizing the sound, the driver hastily snapped up England's payment and peeled out of the driveway, leaving him with no retreat.

England steeled himself. America was strong and wouldn't let a simple thing like a gunshot wound stop him for very long, but if someone was attempting to harm the boy in his own home, then England would simply have to step in. Unless Alfred had bombed someone he shouldn't have, in which case England was going to let him sort out the mess on his own.

Nervous now, England moved quickly to the front door and rang the bell. Once close to the house, he could hear shouting from inside. That was odd. Whoever he was shouting at, Alfred sounded unusually serious.



Concerned, because England was beginning to suspect he knew who America's visitor was, he pressed the door bell again, jabbing it a few times for emphasis.

Quite suddenly, the door was practically ripped of its hinges. England's eyes widened in shock, while America's guest recognized who he was and flashed a big, shit-eating grin.

"Why am I not surprised? I barely been here an hour an' you're already runnin' to mommy?" the cocky brunet asked, directing his question over his shoulder at America. England scanned the man in disbelief. He was definitely not a teenager anymore, as he had been the last time England encountered him. Now he was tall, taller than America even, with a farmer's tan, broad shoulders, and muscled arms. His brunet hair was a little long and shaggy, from what England could see of it underneath the hat, but his eyes were that same shade of blue-bonnet blue that England remembered from the 1860s.

England frowned, and straightened his tie.

"Family reunion?" he asked dryly. The brunet leaned arrogantly against the door frame, as if he owned the house, and sneered down at England from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Despite knowing bullets couldn't kill him, England still winced when he noticed the hot-blooded personification in front of him casually held a sawed-off shotgun.

"England?" America's confused voice asked from inside the house. He sounded weakened for some reason, as well as scared and upset. England's green eyes turned frosty and his glare cut straight through the man blocking his way.

"What have you done to him?" he asked coldly. With a pleased grin, the young man pulled something out of the pocket of his jeans—a very familiar pair of glasses.

"Just swung by to pick up somethin' of mine. You ain't blockin' in my truck, are ya?"

"Does anything exist that could block that abomination in?" England asked, forgetting for a moment the severity of the situation. America's visitor grinned, and then shifted his shot-gun to his left hand so he could extend his right.

"Damn. Here I go forgettin' my manners. I'd hate to be rude to Union's...what are you two, exactly? Judgin' by the fact that Union's a grown man livin' in this house all by his lonesome with doilies on the coffee table, I'm gonna assume you two are fishin' buddies that don't get much fishin' done."

England blinked in confusion, and pointedly refused to shake the offered hand.

"I beg your pardon? I'm not sure what you're implying, but I do believe you're trying to insult me," England replied, glaring once more.

His assumption was correct when the other man retracted the offered hand and used it to shove England backwards. It reminded England of the strength America once used to swing about buffalo as a child. He landed hard on the front porch, the breath knocked out of him.

"Don't know why I expected manners from you. This ain't the first time you've refused to shake my hand. But you know what, partner? That's fine by me. Maybe you need a little reminder to help remember my name..." The arrogant man lifted the shot gun, leveling it straight at England's chest.

Quite suddenly, the crazy man was shoved harshly aside by a panting, bleary-eyed America.

England was surprised to see the hard look in the normally bubbly man's eyes, and a handgun pressed to the brim of the brunet's head.

"Get that shotgun out of his chest or I'll shoot you, Confederacy. I swear I will."

Undeterred, the redneck held his shotgun where it was.

"Say my name," he demanded. England narrowed his green eyes, flicked them nervously towards America, before clearing his throat.

"America," England said pointedly. The other man smiled, ignoring the gun pointed at his head.

"My first name, if'n you don't mind."

"I do mind," England replied. "I wouldn't recognize you before when America and I weren't on speaking terms. What on earth makes you think I'd side with you now?"

"'Cause times are a changin', ain't they Union?" Thankfully, Confederacy lowered his shotgun casually, as if he'd never had any intention of really shooting England. America let out a shaky breath and lowered his handgun.

"I thought you were dead," England said, shifting his gaze to America questioningly. The younger nation shifted awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. America had told England Confederacy was dead, but in reality, his other half mostly just stayed to himself and didn't make many appearances up north.

"The South will never die. Union can't kill me or what I stand for, try as he might. Speakin' of, you left the safety on, you dumbass Yankee. I swear, you couldn't pour water outta a boot if the directions were written on the heel," Confederacy said dismissively. His attention shifted to England. "You look 'bout as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. Get up off the ground. I ain't gonna shoot ya...least not right now."

"Confederacy, this isn't funny anymore. Give me back my glasses. I can't very well take the safety off if I can't see the damn thing," America replied huffily. Forgetting all about England once more, Confederacy turned to his other part and shook his head, as if highly disappointed by what he saw there.

"You keep bein' so damned stupid and I'm gonna come take 'em for good, you hear me? Here. Now stop your whinin'." Confederacy pulled out the slender glasses and handed them back over. America hastily situated them on his nose and then proceeded to pout.

"You need to leave. I didn't invite you, and England doesn't like you," America said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well maybe I like England. I saw Brokeback Mountain. I mighta cried. I'm man enough to admit it. So whatd'ya say, fairy boy? Wanna rodeo?" The crazy redneck winked at England, who was fast moving from alarmed to offended.

"I am not a fairy boy! Furthermore, it's a gross misconception that all fae males prefer their own gender," England replied prissily. Confederacy whistled in a disbelieving sort of way.

"You're a weird little fella, ain't ya? Dunno why you're so hung up on him, Union, but don't let me stand in y'alls way. But I swear Union, if you marry him, I'm gonna hunt you down and drag you back to church. It's Adam and Eve—not Adam and Steve."

"Confederacy, I'm warning you for the last time..."

"Yeah yeah. I'm gonna get. There's a Tea Party meetin' in Louisiana tonight."

"Tea?" England asked sounding rather hopeful. It had been a long flight.

"Not that kinda tea. Right-wing extremists getting together to tailgate, drink beer, and hate on my boss," America muttered petulantly.

"Sounds lovely," England replied sarcastically. Confederacy, however, just winked and made a gallant bow with his hat over his chest, sparkling blue eyes making England's mouth go a little dry. He was a total loose cannon, but England couldn't deny the appeal of his tight-fitting jeans and his devil-may-care grin. As soon as he'd left, America turned the pout up full force.

"You were checking him out," America accused moodily. England brought his bags in, rolling his eyes as he did so.

"Hardly. He's more full of himself than Prussia."

"So you didn't check out his ass when he walked away? And you didn't blush when he winked at you?" England pulled America in for a light kiss, hoping to distract him.

"Technically, it's not cheating, love. He is a part of you."

"Yeah—the tanner, taller, more muscular part of me," America moped.

"I love you, America—all of you. Even your admittedly very good looking, though clearly crazy redneck parts. I'm glad I spend most of my time with you, though. It's your spirit, the American spirit, that I love the most."

"Mmhmm...ya know, Confederacy left one of his cowboy hats here one time..."

"Oh did he now? Now with you, I just might be interested in a rodeo and a tea party...one with actual tea, though."

"As long as I can put sugar in mine, I'm game. And my rodeo will last longer than 8 seconds."

"Now we're talking," England replied with a come hither grin.

America leaned in for a kiss, happy that Texas was back where it belonged, and that he'd traded the company of his southern half for some work on improving international relations.

A/N: Don't really know why I wrote this, but the idea popped in my head and it was more fun to write this than clean the house. -_-; Just a one-shot, though. Hope you enjoyed!