60 - Step Back

the_chosen_end — 18.09.2010 Title: Step Back
Characters: England/America
Rating: PG
Summary: 1968 - Irreconcilable differences don't come any more irreconcilable than the Vietnam War.

TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.

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Saigon, Vietnam. February 22, 1968.


"Ow ow ow ow fuck fuck fuck--"

The doctor clamped a hand on America's bare shoulder and doused his arm with water. The wound cleared for an instant, then sleeved his arm in red again, glinting and streaked in the dull daylight from the window. The power was out. Everyone in the hospital was working by daylight. The heat of tight-packed human bodies was almost as bad as the heat outside. Sweat stung everything.

A clatter of forceps on the tin tray, and the doctor squeezed.

"Fuck--"

America squinted one eye open and grimaced at England. "Yeah, so. I guess I finally found a way to get you out to Vietnam, huh?"

England raised his eyebrows. His hands were folded in the small of his back. "Indeed you did." He watched as the doctor sopped the blood off America’s wound. "--Though I’d say that claiming injury was a bit much. It's barely a scratch."

Well—so it may not be deep, but it was bleeding something fierce, and anyway-- "There's a chunk of metal lodged in me!" America protested. He squirmed an inch straighter on the cot. "In me!"

The doctor dropped a bloodied sliver of shrapnel onto the tray. The forceps clanked beside it. More swabbing and clearing out blood. The nurse made space for a bed of sutures.

"Well there was a second ago," America finished weakly. He swung his feet a bit. He was sort of a VIP around here, in a manner of speaking; nobody really seemed to like him too much, but he got his own cot, and he'd only had to wait for eight or nine hours to see a doctor. He and England and the doctor and the doctor's nurse were all pressed into a quiet corner of the crowded hospital under a big, blank yellow window and over a spreading pool of condensation. Broken pipes. Nobody had time to fix anything, lately.

He inhaled sharp and coughed on the stink of blood. "Plus I was really lightheaded last night when I called you, okay? What."

The pool of damp rippled beneath England's shoes. "I expected an amputation, from the way you were going on." He smiled; just a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "But I can't say I’m not relieved."

"I seriously didn't think you would come." America flicked a droplet of brackish water off England’s shirt sleeve. England was in civilian clothes, slacks and a white shirt that, well, it probably had been pressed when he got on the plane. America wore fatigues--from the waist down, at least. "I mean, seriously."

The hooked needle went in at the edge of his wound; America winced an eye shut again.

"Well. I am constantly looking for ways to defy your expectations of me." It was--a little sharper than it needed to be.

America watched the doctor's hands and the needle and the wound closing up and the blood slowing down, and God fucking Christ that stung something fierce. He tried to think of something to say.

After a minute: "Look, I just don't see what's so unreasonable about expecting my closest ally to like, do ally shit, okay? Like you know, send troops."

Yeah, so he was cranky and hot and his arm hurt, and this was probably the worst place to do this, but why not. They could have this argument again. America set his jaw.

England's smile shifted. Went closed. He turned his head an inch to the side--America could see a thin sheen of sweat gleaming in the hollow of his throat--and huffed out a dark little laugh. "Right now, Alfred? Really?"

America's lips thinned. "Well I'll be out of here in an hour or so, probably, if you want to wait? Didn't you start it? Just now, I thought that was you starting it. What else would 'my expectations' have been about."

The needle went in again. He flinched in the corners of his eyes.

England ignored the question. His eyes marked the row of black Xs closing up the wound. Sunlight turned everything gold. "I am your ally," he observed, clipped, "Not your shadow. You are being very openhanded with the lives of my men."

"How can I be reckless with your men, or whatever, if you won't send any?" America demanded, and then "Ow--"

"Hold still," the doctor ground out, then went on muttering to himself in Vietnamese and America was just as glad, right that second, that he didn’t speak it.

He eased back an inch, wiped at his cheek with the back of his free hand, and scowled out the window. "Look...sorry. Okay? I don’t want to fight about it with you. I appreciate you coming out this way. I know you'd really rather not be here."

So that apology lasted, what, five or ten words?

"Your sincerity is touching." England moved a little closer, out from under that dribble from the overhead pipes. "I appreciate rather less your assumption that I would march blindly behind you into this godforsaken jungle."

"Godforsaken jungle, that's a little harsh," America mumbled. He watched the day-bright ripples spread across the puddle on the floor.

England snorted. "And what would you call it? An 'exotic locale'?"

A sharp tug from the sutures, America winced again, and the doctor snipped him free. Sickly-smelling goop was smeared on over the wound, this yellowish thick stuff America didn’t recognize. He just had to hope it was good for him. This would scar bad enough as it was. He dropped his head forward and ground out, "It's the steaming colon of the world, all right, and it kind of sucks to be on my own halfway inside it."

"Then let me get you out," England snapped. He blinked a trickle of sweat out of his eyes. "I could mediate peace talks, at least. God knows I keep offering. Enough damage has been done, don't you think?"

"I think you're more interested in Nobel peace prizes than you are in--"

"Arm," the doctor demanded.

America held out his arm, his head still down. He gnawed on his lower lip as the doctor tied off his bandages.

England glared at him from over the doctor’s shoulder and bit out, "Yes, Alfred, because I've spent my entire life chasing recognition from pacifists."

The doctor slapped some tape on the bandage and walked off without a word, a new clipboard already in his hand. America blinked after him. Prodded the edge of the bandage. Then he slid to his feet. He wrapped his shirt and jacket over his good arm with a quiet curse. "Come on," a glance at England, "Let's get out of here, I hate hospitals."

England fell into step beside him, lips thin and eyes forward.

They shouldered through the mass of doctors, nurses and groaning patients, through the disorderly and sullen crowd at the door, past rows of cots which sagged with use and humidity, muttering quiet apologies to anyone in their wake. A choking wave of heat hit them when they finally ducked through the doorway.

England winced and loosened his collar. He was down two buttons already. "This is hardly an improvement."

"You should see the place in summer." Somehow the heat added ten pounds on America’s back.

"If you had any sense at all, you would be out of here before then." England drew his hand though his hair and thumped through another cluster of people. Sweat kept his hair parted where his fingers had been.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes as they pried their way out of the crowd and into a scorched and wavering open square. America tipped his face up towards the scalding wet sunlight and shut his eyes. "Yeah, well, we both know what you think of my sense."

Heat glowed off the streets. England stood in front of America, arms crossed. "You're hardly doing much to change my opinion. You will not win this war. Even with my help."

America looked blearily around the square. Broken walls, lines of bedrolls, soldiers everywhere. The smell of distant fires. Too many people. No one to clear out the bodies. He could see a few draped across the threadbare green. "We've still got Saigon. We're holding out. It'd be nice to, you know, have you around."

"I won't deny that you need the help. But you will not get it from me." England followed America's gaze across the devastation. His eyes were hard. "You would like very much to believe that I'd subscribe to this blindly, without ever being consulted beforehand, but I'm afraid you've forgotten exactly who you are dealing with."

"I thought I was dealing with a friend." America winced at that whine in his voice. Sweat made his glasses droop down his nose. He shoved them back up. They slipped down again. "You know, if you needed my help--"

"No." England cut him off. "You wouldn't. Not if it violated those principles of yours. The support of your allies is not a guarantee."

"God, I'm so sick of you lecturing me about this!" America banged his fist back against a bit of bare brick wall. The shock rang up his arm and pounded in his wounded shoulder. "I don't want to be here either, okay! This place sucks and I hate it but I don't really have a choice! If I just, just, leave, I'll look like an even bigger asshole than I do now, and--and I thought--I mean, with how close we are, I figured you'd..." He made a strangled, frustrated gesture.

England let out a long, harsh breath. Something quieted behind his eyes. "You are the closest friend I have," he agreed. "But this relationship--America. We are quite alone together. And that’s not where we belong. You know what I mean."

America lips parted. He shut them. His mouth tasted like heat and salt. "No, I don't.”

A beat. England watched him.

“What do you mean?" America pressed.

England spread his hands. The cuffs of his sleeves were stained with sweat, the undersides of his wrists slick with it. "Our affection for one another—runs deep, but—it is not romantic, and we are both well aware of it."

America felt like his brain had just been...dunked underwater, or something. His thoughts went murky and silent and cold for a few seconds.

He managed, "Oh."

"America." England's voice almost never went that gentle. "This can't be a surprise."

"No, I...I just..." America swallowed around the buzzing in his chest. He studied the walkway thirty feet away so he wouldn't have to study England. "...Didn't expect this to happen right as I walked out of a hospital room, is all."

"...To my credit, I didn't do it while we were still inside." England carefully took America's arm and turned it an inch, studied the bandage. A twitch of a smile; his fingers rested light on America’s skin. "And it isn't as if you're hurt badly."

America looked down at England's hand. He clamped his teeth on his lower lip and tried to figure out how he felt. "So...that's it?"

England's fingertips shifted an inch. He looked up at America. "Unless there is something you want to say? Or if you want to hit me. You can, if you like. But I may hit you back."

America gave him a weak smile and pushed himself straight. His blood felt a little watered down, but-- "No, it's okay. Um. That'd probably really hurt my shoulder anyway."

"I suppose I'm lucky that you're right-handed." England released America. "But I would like you to know that my decisions regarding this place have nothing to do with the state of our relationship."

America nodded, quiet, and thought for a few seconds. England's shirt clung to him, in places. Although America guessed that wasn't really something it was his business to notice, anymore.

He tried, "Okay, but...is the place that's the state of our relationship...I mean," All right, that sentence wasn't going to work out for him, "I mean, I know you wouldn't, like, refuse to send troops 'cause our relationship's been on the rocks, but..."

A few more seconds of trying to figure out how to word it as grueling heat rushes over them in a wave. "You're not breaking up with me because of Vietnam, right?" he blurted.

England gave America’s uninjured shoulder a squeeze. "Of course not, don’t be absurd.”

America took a long, deep breath, then let it out.

"We'll still be friends, right?" He offered a little while later. "I mean...I know we're gonna keep fighting about Vietnam, because I'm never gonna get out of here for the rest of my fucking life, but...you know."

"I certainly hope so. Things would be very bleak without you." England chuckled, and it was a little hoarse, a little too loud. But real enough. He unbuttoned his cuffs and turned up his sleeves. "Who else would force me to socialize?”

America’s arm throbbed, and his heart throbbed, and he leaned in quick and kissed England's right temple. He ducked away a pace before England could react. "I guess, um. I guess I should get back to work."

England gave him an odd and gentle smile. "And I should return to London. Look out for yourself, do you understand?”

"I will. I mean, I do." America took a deep breath of scalding air and thought about the jungle all around him. "Um, I mean...I'll do my best."



<sub>+++

--Oh, guys. If the gilt were ever off the rose, it was for the “special relationship” the winter of the Tet Offensive. After years of strained relations between President Lyndon B Johnson and Prime Minister Harold Wilson over the question of whether or not the United Kingdom would supply troops in a show of support for American policy in Vietnam (answer: no), the escalation of violence which came with the Tet Offensive sank US-UK relations to the lowest point they have been since World War 2.

+++</sub>

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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.

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