"Can I ask you something?" both of them said simultaneously, and the blonde laughed and apologised as the auburn did the same, feeling just as awkward.

Allen and Amelia were sat on the dry ground of the sunflower fields, having been relatively silent for a few minutes as they walked over from the house and then as they perched and took in their surroundings, but now they both wanted sound. There were no birds flying overhead to fill the void.

"Go on, you start," Allen responded out of a mix of courtesy but also because he hadn't the slightest idea how to explain to Amelia that a certain someone in the house was more than just your average dickhead.

"No, you," she insisted, albeit sheepishly.

And this game of verbal tennis lasted a few more rounds before Amelia eventually gave in. There had been something she'd been wanting to get off her chest for a little while, actually, but she'd repeatedly told herself – countless times a day – that it was a very childish thing, what she wanted to say. Well, stuff it, she thought, because no one ever told her she had to be a good listener all of the time.

"How do you . . . Tell someone you know, but don't really know all that well that . . . You like them?" she questioned relatively quietly, casting a inquisitive glance at Allen.

"Uhh . . . Well . . ." he began. Truth be told, he was entirely inexperienced, and was probably the last person she should have been turning to for a correct answer. "I guess you just need to tell them."

"What, really?" she responded, as if it was the stupidest thing anyone had ever said, before humming in recognition of its credibility. It sort of made sense. "But I never really thought it was a good idea. I mean . . . What if they don't like me back?" she questioned, glancing back to the front at the flowers.

"Then you have to take it for what it is," Allen said with a little shrug. "You can't make someone like you. These things sort of just happen, ya know? It's weird . . . And I don't like it . . ." he mused.

"Hm, yeah . . . I guess you're right, though . . . Thanks, Allen," she finalised mutually in agreement. "Your turn, then, but I will also warn you that I have a second thing to ask you afterwards."

"So long as you're not asking for actual relationship advice, it's cool," Allen responded lightheartedly, while his mind went crazy inside (Who was it she liked? Was it Alfred, the lucky bastard? Or had she— Ugh, what was it with girls and British accents, I mean, seriously!)

"Nah, you're safe," Amelia said. "For now. So, what was it you wanted to tell me, or ask or whatever?"

'Or whatever . . . Jesus, she's as oblivious as Alfred,' he told himself, before saying to her directly: "I just want to ask you about the atmosphere in the house. Because you know something's not right, right?"

Amelia nodded. "Yeah, I know . . . It makes me feel a little uncomfortable really . . ."

"Exactly! But—" He stopped himself and sighed. Just jumping straight into an accusation was a bad idea, especially if he wanted to ensure that she understood entirely . . . But then again . . . "You know I was attacked?"

"Al, you were shot. That's a lot worse than just being beaten up," Amelia grimaced, and her stomach did a somersault.

"Yeah, well, whatever you want to call it, I know who—"

"Amelia? You out here somewhere? Allen?"

"Alex?" Amelia mumbled with a little frown.

"Alex," Allen reiterated, his frown much deeper and confused; was he finally done moping in his room? He saw sunflowers moving close by and decided that since it wasn't Charles, no harm could be done. "Over here, Jonesy! We're sat, if you want join us." Two birds with one stone and whatnot.

Alex emerged from between the flowers and let out a sigh of relief as he smiled faintly at the duo. "Finally found you. Thanks for the offer, but I'm actually only here 'cause Charles wanted to speak to Amelia. Lazy so-and-so didn't fancy coming outside himself," he remarked with a small head-shake and laugh. "So, here I am."

"But Charles wants to speak to me?" Amelia queried, wondering what on earth for, bearing in mind she'd been gone for all of fifteen minutes.

"Yeah, God knows what about, but he said he wanted to speak to you, like, right now."

"Oh . . . In which case, I'd better go," she said sheepishly, rising from her spot on the ground and wiping the remnants of dirt from her jeans. She looked to Allen and offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sure it won't take long. I'll come straight back out and we can finish our chat, yeah?"

"Sure thing," Allen meekly replied. He didn't like that Charles had wanted to speak to her, and conveniently just as he had been ready to reveal the truth, but he could hardly blurt it out then and there. "I'll catch you in a bit."

She smiled fully and brightly this time, and bid a quick farewell to the two other Americans before making her way back to the house. Alex, in the meantime, decided to take a seat just where Amelia had been and let out a breath that it seemed he may have been holding, based on how quickly it was released. That, or he was glad to have a quick rest. Allen didn't know, and he wasn't sure he cared too much.

"So," Alex said. "What were you two little lovebirds talking about, huh?"

"Lovebirds? Please," Allen responded, rolling his eyes in distaste. Never had he ever thought someone would use that phrase with regards to himself; he was hardly that kind of person.

"Come on, it's quite obvious. You two like each other." It was love.

"No, no we don't . . . And even if I did, she's got her eyes on someone else . . ."

"For real? I'm not so sure. She looks at you differently to how she looks at Alfred, for example." And it was bad.

"Really . . . ?" Allen said, unconvinced, but deep inside inside of him he was starting to wish it were true.

"Really. Trust me, Allen, she's head over heels for you, and that kinda love . . . It's pretty insane." Because love could get you killed.

<><><>

"Alfred, there's something . . . There's something I need to tell you," Arthur said as the final bag was shut away into the back of the truck.

He'd been avoiding the subject for too long, but he knew they couldn't return to the house without the truth being lain on the table because time was now running out, he was sure of it. Norway and Romania were continuing their research, and he hoped they were close to finding a way to send the anomalous Americans home, but he knew that Charles wouldn't go without a fight. Alfred needed to be on the right side – the side of Right – or else things could go horribly wrong.

Alfred slammed the door shut. "Yeah? What is it, Artie?"

"I— What have I said about using my full name?" he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, force of habit!"

"Right . . . Well . . ." He took a deep breath and readied himself on the edge of the diving platform, staring down at the deep water in front of him. It was a long drop. "I need to talk to you about the house. About . . . Charles . . ."

"Charles?" Alfred repeated with a little frown and he leant against the truck. "What's wrong? Has he said somethig offensive, because he can be like that sometimes. He doesn't really get what manners are all of the time, so you'll have to excuse him if he—"

"I'll do no such thing," Arthur stated.

"What . . . What do you mean?" Alfred questioned, the frown softening as he grew more concerned. What had Charles said or done that was so unforgiveable, even by Arthur?

"I mean that, considering what he has done and is yet to do, forgiveness really is not on my agenda," England reiterated sternly, trying to stand his ground as he straightened up more and prepared himself to challenge the world superpower. To challenge Alfred. "I'm sorry, but you really need to hear me out."

Alfred remained silent. He didn't particularly like where this seemed to be going but he held his tongue in order to be diplomatic and give Arthur a chance to voice whatever problems there were. He wanted to know why the Brit had something against Charles. He wanted to know why Arthur had waited until that moment to speak up. He wanted to know exactly why the green eyes he was looking into seemed to contain nothing but determination, contempt, frustration, fire and . . . Pity.

"—fred? Hello? Did you listen to any of that?" Arthur questioned, folding his arms over his chest. Suddenly, annoyance seemed to shine the brightest into his eyes, and Alfred felt a pang of guilt. "Honestly, this is a joke. I'm trying to explain to you why there's that bloody unsettled atmosphere in the house, and the best I get in response is pure ignorance!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Alfred responded, rubbing his arm as the guilt just continued to grow. "Just explain again . . . Please?"

Arthur let out a sigh of exasperation and shook his head. "Why? Because you're so interested all of a sudden?"

"Artie, I—"

"Don't— Don't 'Artie' me, I swear to God, because you and I are going to have a major falling out if you're not careful," he declared, and he let out short, bittersweet laugh. "Man, I bet Charlie would absolutely love that! For me to go and leave you all be!"

"What the heck has gotten into you? What's your problem?" Alfred responded with a more irritated glare.

"My problem is your childish naivety! The obliviousness you have towards the actual problem currently staying under your roof!" Arthur retorted bluntly. So much for breaking it to him gently. "Charles, Alfred! Charles! Let's start with Mexico, shall we, because an attack was launched on his house following his little visit a few days ago, and he is fucking pissed!"

"W-Well, José asked for it, he broke in and Charlie got hurt—!"

"So he took a bullet for you, what of it? I've taken hundreds, thousands more for you than anyone else has, but if I had hurt someone you cared about – say I shot Matthew at point blank range in the head – you'd never look at me the same way again!" the Brit interrupted. "Why does he get off scot-free?"

He had to pause to catch his breath; so much had come out in the space of seconds, and he was suddenly feeling quite lightheaded. He assumed it was just because of a lack of oxygen in his system – something he was quickly fixing – but that certainly didn't explain how the volume of his voice had increased, or why his throat was growing sore extremely swiftly, or why his eyes were starting to feel much drier than before. Bloody brilliant, he would have said had he the energy.

"That's different," Alfred said coldly, any frown or expression vanishing from his features as he looked at Arthur with a startling ambivalence.

"How? How is it?" England demanded. He was glad at that moment that he knew self-restraint, otherwise he knew he would likely have given Alfred a good smack a while ago and screamed at him to understand.

"Because I care about you, and I—"

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?" Alfred responded, doing a double-take before the glaring competition resumed. "I'm being serious, Arthur!"

"And I call bullshit," the other blonde reiterated, the pride and the confidence and the regality of his nation all growing so he could once again stand high above Alfred and remind him why he was not to be messed with. "I thought you cared about Allen. But lo and behold, right under your nose, he is shot by someone else you care for and you don't even know it."

"Are you accusing Charlie of shooting Allen, now?"

Alfred was incredulous at this point. This was getting ridiculous! How dare he have the audacity to suggest that a) he didn't give a damn about Arthur, Allen or anyone else, for that matter and that b) Charles, of all people, was some trigger-happy lunatic who was shooting people behind Alfred's back just for the hell of it. He'd heard enough. Where was the evidence? Why had Arthur only now brought this to his attention? And, if Allen, too, was aware, why hadn't he stepped forward and told Alfred himself? Why did he need to wait for someone else to do it for him?

"That's exactly what I'm—"

"I don't care."

Arthur blinked and shook his head in disbelief. "What? So, you don't care that Charles shot Allen and poses a threat to you and everyone else in that house?"

"No."

"Alfred, I am telling you now that Charles won't stop at Allen! It'll be another civil war, and you don't want—"

"Just shut the fuck up and leave us alone, Arthur," Alfred said.

He'd given up, and he wasn't going to waste any more time or energy on it. In absolute silence, he opened the door to the driver's seat and promptly got into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. Arthur cursed under his breath and tried to open the same door – he wasn't finished, far from it, and he'd be damned if he let Alfred leave now. But Alfred had shut the locks to all the doors on his truck and ignored the Brit, who was calling his name and trying to get his attention by banging on the window. He fastened his seatbelt, flicked on the radio (Taylor Swift, joy), started the engine, removed the handbrake, put his feet onto the pedals and let Arthur watch in horrified shock as he drove off and left him in the near empty car park. Alone again.

"Fucking idiot," Arthur muttered under his breath bitterly. And then the beginnings of what would become heavy rain (let's face it, he was an expert on rain) began to fall from above.

Lost and unsure of what to do, Arthur began to frantically search his pockets for his phone in the hopes that he would be able to call back to the house and speak to Allen, Amelia, or even Alex, and ask for some help. But he had left his phone there with the other Americans, and so he called himself the idiot this time, and looked around at his surroundings in the hopes of maybe finding someone else who could point him in the right direction.

But just as he began to take his first few steps towards the town centre, two unmarked vehicles, armed with glossy black paint and tinted windows pulled into the empty parking lot and blocked his path. Arthur, completely unarmed, stood his ground and assessed his options. He had no idea whose cars they were or who was sat inside, or why they had chosen him as their target, but he was suddenly wishing he had never left the comfort of his quaint London home.

A man, tall and rather bulky and donning a black suit, emerged from the rear SUV and opened the back passenger door to the same car with a silent invitation that read 'get in'. And as soon as Arthur spotted the gun on the man's belt, he also read the 'or else' at the end of the invitation, and decided that, given the fact that he'd faced this once before in America and got out virtually unscathed, that he'd be absolutely fine. So, with a huff and a puff, he walked up the vehicle and got inside.

He watched silently as the man got back into the car and whispered something to other suited official in the front that he couldn't hear, and waited patiently for the next move. Fortunately for him, Arthur didn't have to wait long before he was handed a mobile phone and told by the man who had so kindly held the door open for him that someone wanted to speak to him and that the phone would ring shortly. ("Someone very important wants a word with you, Mister Kirkland," he had said in a poor English accent, "so sit tight and wait for the phone to ring.")

And as promised, the phone rang and Arthur answered it immediately. "What do you want?" he questioned firmly.

"Ooh, has someone touched a nerve? You sound very . . . Annoyed, England," the voice at the other end remarked, the smile audible. "Please don't tell me you and America had a little fight, hm?"

"I'm sure you know perfectly well that we did, Russia, and I advise that you don't make any silly comments like that again . . ."

"Or else?" Ivan grinned into the phone.

". . . Just tell me what you want, already. If you haven't noticed, I've got somewhere to be," Arthur stated restlessly and anxiously.

"Oh, da, I noticed. Vladimir told me that Alfred just drove off and abandoned you, which is why I am here to offer you a lift somewhere."

"Wait, Vladimir? As in, Romania? Is he here? I need to speak to him—"

"No no no, sorry, Vladimir is the driver of the car you're in. Nice man. Great stomach for vodka, but he's apparently more of an ale person. Still, he's got good aim so I had to keep him on," Ivan said indifferently. "Now, where were we?" Arthur rolled his eyes, and the Russian continued with his theatrics. "Ah, yes. I remember. I was offering you a lift somewhere."

"Back to Alfred's house. The idiot needs help, and he's going to get it whether he likes it or not," the Brit stated. "You're already aware of what's going on, Allen tells me."

"More or less. But I am curious . . . What has happened to make you so suddenly desperate to get back to Alfred?"

"I don't trust Charles," he said quietly, reluctantly. "And I've got this awful feeling that something is going to happen if I leave him to deal with it alone . . ."

"Is that it? Are you sure there is nothing else . . . ?"

"I have no idea what you're trying to suggest, Ivan, but I would really really appreciate it if you stopped, and just had Vlad and his mate take me back to the house," Arthur said.

The longer he was made to wait by these little games, the more anxious he grew, and he was halfway to yelling at Ivan just as he had yelled at Alfred. Why had he done that? Had he seriously lost his cool over a bloody name, and had then in turn jeopardised the entire plan to get the original American to understand what was going on? Apparently so. God, he was an idiot, and Arthur wished he could take it all back and be given another chance. Because even if Alfred had stopped caring, Arthur hadn't and wasn't sure he ever would, and he wanted to be the one to give him a wake up call and expose Charles and make the world right again . . . Was that too much to ask?

"Understood. And, on the way, perhaps you can talk me over how you are going to fix your problem," Ivan said, as Vladimir suddenly seemed to jump to life again and maneuver the car onto the road, leaving the other car behind. "Do we have a deal?"

Arthur nodded to himself. "Deal."