Restoring Honor

“America!” A deep voice hollers from down the long hallway. “America, your door was open, so I just let myself in!” The blond man frowns as he walks into the house, shutting and locking the door behind himself. “America, it’s England. Come out here now.” Hearing the television on in the living room, he makes his way quickly to that room, noticing it to not be in the English language America butchered so well.

Turning the corner, he comes face to face with people that clearly looked as if they did not belong in the Anglican setting that was the rest of the house. England makes a surprised noise, clearly not expecting to see the decorations in the colors of Mexico, El Salvador, and other countries further south. An angry look comes across the man’s face, “Hey! You guys get the hell out! This isn’t your home!”

His voice ringing out causes the small group of people to look up in shock, chattering at him in Spanish. This causes the man to run forward and chase them towards the exit of the home. On his way around the room, he grasps a baseball bat from its stand near the television, swinging it around, while trying to club the invaders into submission.

It takes only a few minutes to get them all out the front door and have it bolted in a more permanent fashion. He puts a chair under the doorknob, as if it would prevent anyone from getting inside. After putting the bat down, he goes around the living room collecting the litter and other paraphernalia from the squatters that invaded his little brother’s home. He sighs unhappily. “America… Where are you? People are invading your house. Don’t you care?”

“E… England…”

Hearing the pitiful cry from somewhere farther in the house, England jumps clear out of his skin. “Shit!” He looks around himself for the source of the voice.

“England, help me…”

The European country recognizes America’s voice, but is confused by the sadness and pained voice. He quickly makes his way further into the house, looking around for something that might indicate his brother was there. “America! You have to tell me where you are, idiot.” He walks past a door with bars, but doesn’t look too far into it, other than noting it was a bedroom. As he walks by the door, he trips and falls to the floor, crashing down on his face. He rolls onto his back and sits up, swearing up a storm. “Damn it, America! Stop leaving things on the…!”

“I’m sorry, England…” The voice draws England’s eyes down to what had tripped him. A pair of arms is stuck out into the middle of the walkway. America smiles at his brother weakly, the man obviously in a jail cell. “I didn’t know you were so close to me now.”

England gasps softly, and lurches forward, grabbing the bars so he can stare into the little room. “America, what the hell? Why are you locked in this little room? Did you know there were a bunch of people squatting in your living room? I chased their asses out. None of them could tell me why they were here. It really stinks out there!” England rambles on for a moment more, before stopping and just looking into the sad face of his brother who has pulled himself up into a sitting position.

America sighs softly and shakes his head, leaning forward with his head pressed against the bars. “My superior… He hates me, and doesn’t want me to be free. He wants to have complete control…” The country’s voice is weak, as if he had been locked in the small bedroom for quite some time. “Those people there… I tried to throw them out before, but they keep getting back in. The superior from Mexico told my superior that they should be allowed into my home. My superior told him he would take care of it, and locked me in my bedroom. And I’m tired of coming to rescue others and get beaten up for not doing enough.”

“America…” England murmurs sadly, his head falling with the extent to which America’s superior had taken to abusing him. He lifts his eyes to look over the man and sees fading bruises around his bright blue eyes, and glasses that are scratched and crooked. He slides a hand into the man’s cell, and puts it on America’s shoulder. “That’s not right… He’s supposed to protect you, and encourage you.”

America smiles softly and shrugs, running a hand through his hair. He licks his lips and sits back. “I will have a new superior in a few years. I’ll be okay. I’m weak right now, but I’m getting stronger. Much stronger. There are some people speaking out for me.” He smiles and points to pictures on the walls that have been brought to him of over a million people on the national mall in front of the Lincoln Memorial, with a blond man speaking of honor and God and the need for both to be brought back to the lives of regular people. Other pictures around the room are of other, similar events, with a varying degree of recency. “See? That one took place only a few months ago. And the one next to it… Last September.” The indicated picture shows people on the steps of the Capital building. “And that one was August 28, 1963. Dr. King was a very good friend of mine. I couldn’t do enough to support him.” He smiles, pointing to a picture much like the first one where a black Minister spoke about people being judged by their character and not their skin color

The soft laughter from the caged man causes England to sigh and shake his head, clearly not believing his brother would be able to come back from this situation now. He stares at his brother, not realizing that there were several people coming up the path to his brother’s home. “America… You can’t stay in this little room for a few years while people invade your home and take it like it’s their place! Why don’t you push back! Tell your superior that he’s an asshole!”

America stands slowly, pulling himself to his feet, his stomach making a gurgling noise as he does so. “It’s not our way, England…” He jolts suddenly, hearing the door being battered against. He shrinks back, suddenly, wondering if it was time for another one of his interrogation sessions. “Go home, brother,” he says with concern, his blue eyes sad.

England stands as well, taking a more defensive status. “It’s always up to me to protect you, isn’t it, dummy?” He looks at his brother, seeing him once again as the small boy in the forest he coaxed away from the perverse France and ineffectual Spain. He is snapped from his reverie by the door slamming open, and a horde of people rush in, being led by the tall blonde man from the most recent picture on the wall of America’s cell.

The people spread out over the house, cleaning and repairing what has been destroyed by the squatters. As the repairing horde works their way to the back of the house, England moves aside, finding the invaders to not be a threatening presence. He looks at his brother, watching him grow happier, as if the acts of kindness being perpetrated for him made him stronger. A small group come back to the cell and looks in at their country. The three men are young, and each dressed in the uniforms England immediately recognizes as what America had worn when he fought for his freedom. The boys discuss the padlock amongst them, and eagerly set to work at breaking it. One drops a thick wedge into it, while the other swings a small sledgehammer down on it. Several strikes later, the metal of the padlock gives way, the entire thing falling to the ground. They wrench the door open and return to the now retreating army of people trooping out of the remarkably clean and well-kept home.

After the door has been closed, England looks over at his brother and smiles, seeing America looking as happy as he used to. America comes out of the room and into his home for the first time in a very long time. “Well… I guess they haven’t forgotten about me. They still love me, right?” He laughs loudly, but suddenly collapses against England’s chest, being caught almost automatically.

“You idiot…” England murmurs, dragging the deadweight into the kitchen, he remembers times when food of any kind would make America giddy. “You should know better than to jump around and make a lot of noise after I let you out of captivity.” He drops the man into a chair and takes the short few steps over to the sink where he grabs a glass for tea. The European country sticks his tongue out distastefully at the liquid being in a large pitcher with ice and lemons. “How can you pervert this drink like you do? Idiot, idiot, idiot!”

America laughs playfully and takes the drink from his brother, putting it to his lips. He closes his eyes while sipping at the liquid. He does not realize that England has moved over to the stove, and started taking down ingredients with which to make a proper English lunch for the young country. America sets the glass down on the table. He props his head up on an elbow placed on the table, smiling warmly at his brother. “Thank you, England…” He whispers, the soft expression betraying his true gratitude for everything that had been done for him.