USUK/UKUS One Shots

These Quiet Glass Nights

Warnings: Brief violence, discussed sexual content

Word Count: 10,565

Estimated Read Time: 1 Hour 20 Minutes

A/N: I always headcanon America as having been a grown ass adult when these two met and I continue to stand by that.  Historical inaccuracy note-- there is no record of riots/rebel activity in Edinburgh like this in 1805. 

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London, Spring 1805

England's office was a mess. Usually, it wasn't. Usually, he kept it spick and span, knowing that he was at least 20% less effective when he was surrounded by clutter, but right now, it was because he didn't have time to sort it out himself, and he didn't trust anyone else to see to the matter for him... and so the papers stacked. Not just papers, either. There were maps pinned to the wall, books piled together, letters in various stages of being written across his desk, and ink stains kind of everywhere. His hair was even more unruly than his office, and that was saying something, but he couldn't kick the habit of threading his hands through it when he was stressed.

Right now, he had opened a letter regarding naval supplies for the ongoing war. Half of him wished he was on a ship right now, showing France who owned this continent, but unfortunately, France seemed to be doing better than England would have guessed with his new leader at the helm (ironic, really, to crown him an emperor when France had just been so emphatic that monarchy was not the way to go).

England rubbed his eyes, which were far too dry and far too distracted to really absorb any of the words on the page. Foregoing the war problems for a moment, he leaned back in his chair, sighing and massaging his temples. It had been a long day, and the sun would be setting soon. The behemoth of France's ambition was only the beginning of his problems, though. It should be chief among them, but that title had been ripped out from under him by America. No one should have been surprised, though. When did America not plague England's thoughts, for better or for worse? It had been 24 years since the fighting between them had come to a standstill, and America was now his own country, which was going better than England expected but not much better, all things considered. They'd finally replaced that useless Adams fellow with England's least favourite author, and he didn't know which was worse.

No, he did. It was Jefferson, who had sent America over here to "smooth things over," America had said. Now, England had his former lover in London, causing him a hurricane of frustration and heartache he'd tried very hard to bury and distracting him from Napoleon's world-domination schemes.

And speaking of the devil, there was a knock at his office door. He called out an invitation against his will, and America stepped in. Despite the years that had passed, he couldn't help the way his heart sped every time he saw his former colony. America's presence was both a blessing and a curse. He brought back memories, and that was the problem. Not always bad memories, but they all ached the same. Looking at him now made England's head swim with thoughts of them in this very room together only a few decades ago, lounging in chairs by the fire and laughing about work, pushing America down on the very desk he sat at, and the countless hours America had spent doodling in the armchair when England was busy but he wanted to stay close. Now, it all felt distant.

"I brought the reports you wanted to see," America said, and since he had already been in here earlier in the day, there was no startled look over all the clutter this time.

England extended a hand. "Ah, right." He took the reports and tapped them on the desk to straighten them out like they weren't about to add to the disaster of an office he had right now.