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Chapter Text

Alfred huffed irritably as he continued walking through rows of cotton, grimacing when he was scratched as he walked by. There was no sign of the mystery child wreaking havoc on the plantations and businesses in the area. There were stories about the child playing with slave children, stealing food and ransacking stores not to mention letting loose horses and other livestock. The personification of America had a bad feeling about all of this which was why he was getting involved in such a trivial search in the first place. He could sense it nearby: the aura of a fellow country. Honestly, it scared the shit out of him. If this mystery nation was in his territory, then that could spell trouble. He had enough enemies to deal with at the moment, and he didn't want another. Plus, the way things were going, he was about to have a war on his hands.

He was headed back towards the plantation home, past slaves and over-looking foremen. Then he noticed what was happening on the plantation house's porch. There were several house slaves chasing a flash of white out the front door. The owner and his oldest son were soon to follow, barking orders and trying to grab the little creature. At first, Alfred thought it was perhaps a cat or a goat that got loose, but as he got closer, he noticed it was actually a little girl. She was pale with long, tangled white blonde hair and startlingly dark blue eyes. They were almost violet.

"You cain't make me!" the child snapped as she ran, her accent thick.

"Get back here!"

"No!"

The little girl was heading for the yard gate and sweet freedom, but America blocked her way at the last second, using his body as a blockade. That was the first time she looked at him, and that's when he knew she was the country. She was startled as he made a grab at her, but those blue eyes had cunning in them. She narrowly managed to avoid capture as she ducked and raced away in another direction. Now Alfred was involved in the chase. They ran about the yard as the little girl ran back and forth in circles and zig-zags—anything to try to shake off her pursuers. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be so easy anymore now that America was involved. The chase dragged on, but to the little girl's obvious displeasure, Alfred was able to stay on her tail.

"You, go around the house and cut her off!" The owner was ordering his slaves. "Hurry up, goddammit!" The sound of a whip made Alfred turn, giving the girl a chance to run. She was able to safely make it up an apple tree in the garden. By the time he reached the tree, the little girl was out of his reach. Time to try a new tactic.

"Hey," he said cheerfully. "What are you doing up there? It's dangerous for little ones to climb trees, y'know."

The child just glared at him.

"Your feet look pretty bad. How about you come down so I can clean them up? My name is Ame...Alfred."

"No!" She snapped. "You'll have ta keel me first!"

America laughed. "I don't want to do that. You're too cute. You want something to eat?"

Her eyes lit up as she warily looked him over for signs of food. The owner who had been a few feet away, caught on and started sending the slaves to get food from the kitchen as it was just past lunch. The slaves brought out bread, chicken and a few tea cakes. America took the cakes first, knowing most—including himself—loved sweets. He walked to the trunk of the tree and lifted the sweet up high. When she took it, he intended to grab her.

He watched as she warily started inching closer, her little hand cautiously reaching out towards him. Alfred slowly began lifting himself up into the tree as she reached, being careful not to startle her. As soon as she grabbed it, Al grabbed her arm and jerked her out of the tree. She screamed as she was pulled from the tree and started trying to get away again, biting and kicking and scratching whatever and whoever she could reach.

"Don't I at least get a thank-" Thunk. "Jesus Christ!" Alfred barked in pain as something whacked him between the legs. As it hit the ground, he realized what the projectile was: an over ripened apple. By the one arm he lifted her up off the ground to dangle as she snarled and fought like a wet cat in a rucksack. "That wasn't very nice."

The child froze and looked at him like he was the dumbest thing this side of the Atlantic. "It wasn't meant ta be. You half nigger or somethin’?"

Alfred laughed. "You've got a mouth on you, huh? Where are you staying?"

The girl grimaced and tugged on his hand that held her dangling in midair. "You hurtin' me."

"Oh, sorry," he put her down and knelt in front of her. "So, you living with anyone?"

"I stay with Elam."

"Who's that?"

"A slave."

Alfred frowned. He knew of the conditions these slaves lived in, and he knew it was wrong. But it most certainly wasn't a place for a little girl. The floors were covered in dirt and shit and piss, and the wood shacks were rotted. Hell, some didn't even have doors to keep out the cold.

"Is this your daughter, sir?" The owner of the plantation yelled, coming up to him in a fury.

"Uh…yeah…sure. Sorry about that, sir."

"Sorry ain't gonna pay for reparations, young man. Next time, I'll set the dogs on her." 

Dixie lazily opened her eyes, glancing at her living alarm as he licked her foot and bit her toes. "Stonewall...Christ’s sake," she groaned.

She'd gotten the bloodhound puppy two weeks ago. He was only seven months old, and he was an unending ball of energy unlike her other eight year old bloodhound, Ulysses, who had always been a very mellow dog who preferred sleeping. She gave a frustrated groan, slowly lifting herself up from the soft mattress to pick up the small dog.

"What’re you doin'?" she cooed in a childish voice as she raised him up over her head, careful to keep a good grip with her constantly trembling hands. He wriggled and growled as he bit at her hands, never quite reaching with anything but his paws. "Cain't get me now can ya, tough guy?"

She looked over at Ulysses, who was just opening his eyes on the other side of the bed, sprawled out so he took up the majority of it. Dixie smiled and sat Stonewall on the floor before she spooned the massive dog. He groaned as the bed shifted and stretched out his legs. "Mornin', big guy. How's my handsome ole man doin' today?"

The dog lifted his head to lick her quaking hand once before laying his head back down with an old man grunt. Dixie smiled and laughed to herself before sobering as she sat up on the edge of her bed where Stonewall was playing tug of war with her quilt. Today was another day of hate and scorn and mocking. She knew what everyone thought of her, especially those who knew their true identity. They thought she was cold and unfeeling. To an extent that much was true, but it was also very wrong.

Her smile rarely broke free from its mold anymore. Dixie picked up Stonewall and buried her face in his soft puppy fur. Swiping at her hair playfully, he ducked out of her arms and rolled onto his belly, expecting attention. Dixie laughed as he quirked his head towards her. If only people could see her like this, her true self, but she knew how things were, where she stood in the grand scheme of things, and it's likely that her dogs would be the closest thing she would ever get to a love life.

Hell, she still loved the same idiot that she did 150 years ago, never once considering another. They never so much as kissed. Her dreams often consisted of what it could possibly be like if they were together, of a love that is timeless, forever. Part of her—the cynical soldier—told herself how stupid it was to hold such fairytale ideals about love. Part of her—the Southern belle—told herself that it was foolish not to. In reality though, her world was guns, uniforms, and blood. She was a killer…a sinner. Feelings meant absolutely nothing on the battlefield, but why did the battlefield always have to follow her? In truth, she was his bitch. Not a lover, not a friend, not an equal. She was his little watchdog, keeping him on track, protecting him, giving everything to him. She has nothing without him. Of course, no one saw such torment, passion and desire. They only saw the mask.

Dixie stood slowly, stretching as she started walking to the bathroom. Her dark blue eyes stared back at her in the mirror tiredly from under her white blonde hair that stood up at radical angles. Her hand wandered down to the long scar that wrapped around the front of her throat before starting to get ready for the day. When she was done in the bathroom, she removed her night shirt and was going to grab for her clothes when she heard her phone playing the military's rendition of "Dixieland." Odd...who would be calling this early in the morning? Her dogs followed after her like ducklings as she went to get her phone off the table.

"Hello?"

"Dude, Dix! I, like, seriously need your help!"

Dixie's eyes widened in alarm. "Was there another attack? Are you hurt? Where are you?" Dixie asked, going towards her remote to see the damage.

"No, no, nothing like that. I just seriously need help getting my world report together. I totally forgot it was this week."

Dixie relaxed visibly and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Jesus, Sir, you almost gave me a fuckin' heart attack."

"Sorry, but seriously, you can help me right?" Dixie couldn't help but smile softly. She didn't want to tell him she had already been typing up his speech. It'd just make him feel bad. "I'll do what I can, Sir. Have you booked a room for the meetin'?"

"Yeah," he mumbled grumpily. "We got paired with France and England."

Dixie smirked as she grabbed a handful of salt and vinegar chips from a bowl on the counter. "You called last minute again din you?"

"Yeah," he grumbled under his breath.

She sighed. "Sir, you realize procrastination ain't gettin' you-"

"I know, I know. Jeez, you sound like Artie. So, uhm, wanna meet at the Brewbacca's Cafe? Y'know...to talk about the meeting?" It was one of his favorites in New York City. "Of course, Sir. I'll be there in two hours."

The sun had yet to rise over the Big Apple; another two hours would see it peeking over the skyline, bringing weak, wintry light to the waking population. For now, the majority of the city slept, though many were just rising from their beds, flooding the windows of their homes with light as they got ready for the day. On a flat rooftop, lying prone within a thick black coat, a man watched one such window through military-grade binoculars. Dark brown eyes followed the movements of the occupant through the lenses.

"Good morning, dearest," he murmured. "How good to see you again." Lifting a hand from the binoculars, he picked up the pen lying on the pad of paper at his side. Nearly numb fingers shook only slightly as he wrote 'Rises 4:30 a.m.' "Right on time," he murmured. His hand paused in its writing, his eyebrows lifting with a broad smile as something caught his eye. "What have we here..." The woman stood with her back to the window, shoulder length, choppy hair loose while she headed towards the bathroom. Her watcher's smile grew even further. "My, my, that's quite the burn scar you've got there, dear. I wonder how you got it." After emerging, he watched as she shrugged into a clean shirt, and then her head came up sharply, and she moved out of sight. He reached over to scribble 'full-back burn scar' on the paper. "Now, what's gotten your attention so suddenly," he said, half to himself.

There were two windows to his subject's apartment as well as a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony that probably couldn't hold more than one at a time; his eyes darted from one window to the other, noticing the massive bloodhound as it wandered after her, a puppy biting at its heels. For a while there was nothing, but abruptly, she appeared again, a cell phone pressed to her ear as her shaking hands struggled to button up her shirt. The man stared at her, at the way her lips moved as she spoke, at the way she ran her fingers through her messy hair as she continued to get ready and eat something in her hand. She looked serious as she spoke to her caller, a neutral expression.

"Oh my." His heart raced at the sight of her lips curving. The smile wasn't meant for him: it was private, fond, and amused, all at once. No teeth showed, but the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. To be privy such a private moment and so subtly violate it thrilled him. The woman took the phone from her ear, sitting it on the table as she moved to the kitchen to fill two separate dog bowls before going deeper into her apartment.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, he periodically lost sight of her as she moved about, getting ready for the day, until finally, the lights were extinguished. Setting the binoculars aside, the man army crawled to the ledge of the roof, peering into the street below. Snow crunched under the woman's boots, less audibly so beneath the paws of her dogs as the three emerged. He could see her dual shoulder holsters under her Confederate coat as she headed north at a sedate walk. The man watched her go until she turned a corner and disappeared. "Taking the dogs to work today, hmm? How sweet of you. Have a nice day, Miss Bohannon. I'll see you soon."

The flashback occurred in 1767. In that year, the Mason-Dixon line was founded and would later be considered the symbolic separation between the North and South.

Chapter Text

By the time Dixie reached the cafe at 6:30, it was just beginning to open its doors. To her knowledge, it was the only shop that was open at this hour for several miles. She pushed through the door, setting off the Darth Vader chime and paused to hold the door open for Stonewall and Ulysses. She carefully picked up the puppy and tucked his shivering body into her coat to help him warm up as she walked further in. The little bastard deserved it with all the rolling around he did in the snow. Miniature dumbass.

"Good grief, young lady, don't you know it's too early to be up and about?" a voice said from behind the counter, gruff, irritable and worn from years of smoking. It was the owner, Mr. Hanzari. He looked like your typical 60 year old man with his long hair tied back and a beard to match it.

"Dun seem to stop you, Mr. Hanzari," Dixie countered. "You're becomin' contradictory in your old age."

Leaning on the serving counter, Hanzari fixed her with a mock-stern glare. "And you've still got as much of that Southern smartassery as ever. Didn't anyone down there ever teach you to respect your elders?"

"When you're old enough to be considered my elder, I will," she assured him. He, of course, didn't get the underlying jab. She was over 200 years old. "Have any recommendations for this mornin'?"

"No can do, not until you learn to keep that mouth of yours in check. I'm terribly insulted; I doubt I'll be able to work for the rest of the day."

"Malachi, stop it! Give the poor thing her coffee!" a woman's voice barked. The voice's owner bustled into view: a graying, robust woman wiping her hands on an already dusty apron. "Good morning, dear. Don't mind him; he's been an old codger since he woke up." She moved towards a tall thermal container, picking up a mug as she went. "I've got just the thing, sweetie: an Arabica blend with a bit of orange spice that's just right for waking up the body on a chilly day."

"As if the chill didn't already do that," Malachi snorted.

"Thank ya kindly, Louise." She handed off her payment to Malachi with a sly smirk. From within her coat, Stonewall woofed, finally managing to poke his little head out.

"Ah! You finally brought him!" Coming around the counter with a brimming mug, Louise beamed at the puppy, taking him from Dixie to cuddle. "You're as cute as a button. You're just the handsomest dog in all of New York! Look at this adorable face! You just want to cuddle him forever! And look at this champ," she said, kneeling to scratch under Ulysses' chin. "King of the pack, aren't ya? You wait right here; I've got something special in the back for you two," she said as she handed the puppy back to Dixie.

At about that time, Alfred made it in. He was wearing a Walking Dead tshirt and a pair of jeans while Dixie as usual was dressed formally. He looked cold and miserable as he always did during the winter months with his bomber jacket zipped up to his neck. Thankfully he didn't bring Tony along anymore. It was hard to explain why Alfred’s nephew looked so…grey. He brushed the snow from his jacket, hair and jeans before stomping his boots clean on the mat.

Accepting a cup of coffee and the usual bear claw from Malachi with a nod and a ten, Alfred faced his bodyguard. "Sorry for the short notice, Dix, but I wanted to discuss this before we got to the office."

"Not a problem, Sir." She gestured to the small table she normally sat at.

The two of them settled into their separate chairs, Alfred dropping a folder onto the tabletop between them. "This is everything the states have sent me since the last World Summit. How're things going on your end?"

Dixie opened the file, scanning briefly through the pages contained within. Snow damages...drought...tropical storms...floods...tornados. It was nothing out of the ordinary. "I'll be meetin' with the states soon. I already met with Louisiana Purchase and Gadsden Purchase since they're both busy on the day of the meetin'. They send their regards."

Alfred's face lit up. The states were like children to both Alfred and Dixie...well, some of them. Alfred was loved across the board while Dixie was better received by the Southern states, though some Northern states were kinder than others. Louisiana Purchase was one of the older states and one of the closest to Dixie. "That's good. Are they in good health? Have they grown?"

"They're happy, though Louisiana Purchase has lost weight. Tornado season just ended for her, and there was a lot of floodin' in the Bible Belt."

"I know. I've been meaning to visit her to see what I can do. And Gadsden Purchase?"

"He's been havin' economic problems just like the rest of ‘em, and the whole illegal alien problem is gettin' to him. Other than that, he's still his usual, conspiracy theorist self."

Alfred sighed. "Man, I wish I had time to visit them."

"They understand you're busy, Sir," she said, taking a sip of coffee as she continued to read the file, having to hold the paper away from her to read it.

"The shaking seems better."

Dixie looked up and noticed Alfred looking at her hands. They shook constantly unless she was holding a weapon. Ever since Shenandoah Valley. It was just her way of coping with things. Everyone was different in their coping. France had sex, Italy ate, Germany exercised, Britain drank, and so on. It usually got worse when she wasn't doing something or her mind wasn't preoccupied. It made drinking and eating a chore. Putting on clothes was even worse.

Dixie nodded and sat down the file between them. "It all seems straightforward. Why was it necessary to meet outside the office?"

Alfred watched Louise giving Stonewall and Ulysses each a pair of vanilla wafers. "Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face," he said with that classic grin before sobering. "Honestly, Dix, you don't have to call me 'Sir' all the time. It's...kinda weird actually. You can call me Alfred. We're both natio-"

"You're my superior, and I ain't like you anymore, Sir. You know that," Dixie said sharply, looking around warily to make sure they weren't being overheard. "So what was the real reason for bringin' me out here? You don't get up this early 'less it's serious."

Alfred grinned before laughing sheepishly. "You know me too well."

"It's my job, Sir."

"They think another terrorist group has a personification of their own. They want us to find a way to either sway him or take him down."

In other words, they’d go in, kill him, and tell everyone they tried a less lethal approach first. "And they want me to go alone again?"

Alfred grinned. "Nope, I'm tagging along. It'll be like old times: the daring heroes against the world."

Dixie smirked. "Was there anythin’ else you wanted to discuss, Sir?" she asked as she took another long drink.

"That's it." He grinned that usual dumb America grin—though she knew it as the "I'm totally hiding something" grin—and tipped back his mug.

Silence held for nearly five minutes after that, the two of them gazing out the window as the city awakened from under its mantle of snow. At a quarter to eight when they'd finished their drinks, Alfred got to his feet. "Ready to go? I can give you a lift to the office if you want."

Dixie smiled. "Well it's either that, or walk about three miles with a puppy that loves playin’ in snow way more than he should and a dog that hates walkin' period."

"Then I guess I'm going to have to rescue the damsel." Reaching over, he plucked a leash from her before motioning to the door. “Shall we?”

Halfway to the door, Malachi spoke from his spot at the counter. "Hold up. Aren't you forgetting something?" He waved a folded newspaper in his hand. "It's important to stay in the know about what's going on in the world."

Taking the stiff newsprint, she fought back a smile. "Thanks ya'll."

Louise waved from the kitchen. "You bring that puppy back soon! That's all the thanks I need!"

The walk to the car was a quiet one, the only noise being the snow beneath their shoes. It was a comfortable silence between two beings who had known each other for centuries. Alfred had parked a good distance away from the location so as to not draw unwanted attention. It was just another habit that had formed during the years of the Cold War when they both had to become skilled in espionage.

Once settled in the driver's seat, Alfred wasted no time. "So, what did they give you?"

Unfolding the newspaper, Dixie extracted a piece of paper with horrid handwriting on it. She squinted as she tried to decipher it, grabbing Alfred's glasses off his face and perching them on her nose. She and Alfred were both horridly far sighted. Her brow furrowed. "Terrorists may start sendin' people in through Mexico now that the border policies are lax. No surprise there," she said snappily as she handed back the glasses.

"Tell Texas," Alfred began as he started up the car, allowing it to warm up before they got moving. "See if he can confirm or deny it. If it's true, we have a vested interest in nipping it in the bud. At least attacks along the Southern border would be harder than in other places," he said as he started pulling out onto the street.

Dixie smiled softly at the subtle compliment and relaxed against the smooth leather seat of the sports car, letting Stonewall yip as he bit playfully at her tickling fingers. "I'll have a full report on your desk by tomorrow morning."

"Good." Giving her a side-long glance, he smiled. "Are we done talking business now? It's getting depressing."

Dixie smirked and nodded. "For the moment."

"Finally. Let's listen to some music."

Dixie groaned. Fuck, please don't let it be rap or pop or whatever that techno shit was called. If she never heard that garbage again, it'd be too soon. 

With Dixie's dogs gone, it left her apartment unguarded. Her intruder wondered if the woman realized how poor her personal security was in comparison to the security she provided America. Any person with a bit of skill as a lock pick and a tendency to move quietly could get in within five minutes tops. It was embarrassing really.

Standing in the middle of the living space, hands on his hips, the man studied the surroundings. "You'd certainly never make it as a housewife, would you, my dear."

The apartment was Spartan at best: nothing more than was absolutely necessary. A bed, a table with a pair of chairs, a kitchen, a pantry, two bookshelves, a closet and a dresser. Even the carpet was thin and minimal. He doubted she'd ever even owned curtains since being forced into her current line of work. Grinning, he stalked towards the dresser.

"Can't say much for your taste in clothes," he murmured, sifting through the drawers. Each garment was neatly folded, all of them shirts in this drawer. The majority of them were black with short sleeves and a high collar, though a few were more feminine blouses. She had several button down shirts, even had ties and vests that looked fit for the red carpet. The dark clothes were all on the left side of the drawer, the lighter ones on the right with a divide between the two. How symbolic.

Pausing to jot down that particular observation, the man closed the drawer, turning towards the queen sized bed. Picking up the pillow in its quilted case, he pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled like gun powder and bourbon, but under all that was a soft, clean scent. Like cotton. A blissful smile crossed his face, his eyes closing as he fell onto the quilt covered bed. "Soft and sweet, just as a woman ought to be." Replacing the pillow tenderly, he smoothed away the wrinkles in the pretty fabric. "And beneath all the guns and posturing, that's exactly what you are, isn't it? A sweet little Southern belle that hasn't yet gotten her beau and her ball."

Crouching, the man flattened himself against the floor before flipping onto his back and worming his way under the bed. Taking a tiny device from his pocket, he hooked it into the underside of the bed frame where it would be well hidden from everything…including puppies. He learned his lesson after the last time. Smiling with personal pride, he wormed his way back out into the open. A similar device was placed under the table in the kitchen and just above the nozzle of the showerhead before he turned his attention to the apartment at large once again.

"Someday, dear, you and I will have a lovely chat, face-to-face, and I won't have to sneak around like this. Just like old times."

He was still for a moment before something hidden on the back of the dresser caught his eye. Sitting innocently atop it was a glossy, painted ceramic box, decorated in a Chinese style with a pretty scene with flowers and a pond. Lifting the lid, he withdrew a slim gold chain holding a locket. He opened it and smiled at the picture of a younger, more innocent version of Miss Bohannon from before the war that ruined her and tucked it into his pocket. It would be safe with him until he could personally deliver it to her.

Chapter Text

Dixie was tiredly watching another state meeting go down like the Titanic. No, the Titanic went down at a slower rate than this meeting had. This was a fucking avalanche. Honestly, the nations got along better than most of the states did. Jesus, if this was how Germany felt during meetings, she was going to buy him a fucking fruit basket. Ten fruit baskets. As usual, the Northern and Southern states held grudges against each other that never seemed to end. She wasn't too welcome here either for that matter, many made sure of that. Alfred usually helped with these things, but he was attending military funerals, visiting memorials and getting prepared for the tri-annual World Summit. She wasn't all that fazed by the hate anymore. She'd had a long time to condition herself. Nearly three centuries.

The one thing the states had in common though was a love for America—both the personification and the country itself. All of them were very patriotic, but that's where the similarities came to a screeching halt. Virginia wanted coal to thrive, but California wanted to get rid of it. New York was opposed to fracking, but Texas was a fan. It went on, and on, and on.

"There aren't enough seats for everyone." California pointed out cattily. "We should have someone who isn't really a nation anymore stand so that we can sit."

Dixie didn't react though inside she was dying to tear that impudent brat a new one. And to think, she actually fought for him during the Mexican-American Wars. If she could do it over, she'd let Mexico keep him. Hell, she'd personally deliver him in a hand basket if they wanted.

Georgia huffed as she put down her phone. "You're a sorry excuse for a state, you know that? Just stand up or share with Oregon. It ain't that bad."

"Oh, so 'massa' is telling me what to do now, is that it?"

Dixie frowned. She watched as they faced off but refrained from getting involved so as not to show favoritism. "I should've killed you when I had the chance," Georgia snarled. Dixie quickly put a hand on her arm in warning before she could draw the gun from her purse.

"Ditto."

On the other side of the room, New York and Tennessee were arguing about music. "Music's the only way to properly express emotion. Without it, how do we know what people feel?" Tennessee reasoned, with a frown.

New York sighed. "I don't know, maybe words!”

"It makes it easier! Using the right key and chords can mean you're depressed or happy! Maybe if you actually understood music instead of listening to your shitty rap, you would realize how stupid you are."

"Excuse me? Have you heard your honky tonk, inbred music lately?" New York barked.

New Jersey just looked pissed off. Not like that was news to anyone. He always had something bad to say about everything. It's like he enjoyed fighting. Meanwhile, Idaho was talking amicably to Nebraska and Utah about how each one was doing in the agriculture department. In the corner, Hawaii was trying to wake Alaska Purchase in the nicest way possible. Those two usually kept to themselves since they were youngest and both disconnected from the mainland. The poor thing was probably exhausted since she had to take the longest flight to get there.

"I don't think it's gonna work if we try to approve this across the board. It's like the gay marriage shit all over again. This is for individual states to decide, not the feds." Mississippi butted in.

Everyone went silent. They'd originally been discussing whether or not military personnel should be authorized to carry weaponry in bases. Dixie groaned and buried her face in her hand. Why? Why did she have to bring up the fucking gay marriage decision? Again?!

"What the hell are you saying?! That was a monumental step forward for us! How dare you consider it a mistake," California yelled with hostility as many others agreed.

Dixie rolled her eyes as she continued writing patiently on her notepad. She was with Mississippi on that one. Well, sort of. She believed the government shouldn't get involved in a Church institution like marriage. She thought it'd be best to let the churches decide. Hell, thousands of churches were excited to marry gay couples. Why alienate the ones that thought differently? All the court's marriage license did was make you partners for taxes and insurance. Most the nations and states called her an old-fashioned homophobe for that, and it hurt. Have they looked at the Middle East? How about that asshole Afghanistan or the twins Iraq and Iran? What about that dick Russia?

The Federal government was getting too big for its britches...just like Lincoln did. That bastard was probably one of the worst Presidents in American history in her opinion. He was a tyrant and a war criminal comparable to Stalin, deserving of his fate that she herself played a part in. Really, one police officer for Presidential security? They really made it too easy for her. She doubted Booth even knew she’d helped him. The only ones that knew were herself, a few dead Senators, a few nations and America. The thought that such a thing could happen again though...it was a foreboding, terrifying sensation for Dixie. She didn't think she could endure the pain again because she knew that if any states seceded, she would become their representative even if she fought against it. Becoming a nation wasn’t a painful experience, but losing it was…unlike anything she could describe. It started immediately after the loss of nation status and continued for a week. It was a week of never ending pain, hallucinations and bodily decomposition. Most died if they didn’t have help: either otherworldly or medical. If she became the Confederate States again, she’d have to fight Alfred, and this time the government wouldn't be so forgiving. They'd execute her in a heartbeat no matter what she did or said.

Dixie snapped out of her reverie just in time to see Texas lunging over the table with the help of Virginia and Georgia to get to New York, California, Maine and New Hampshire. She stood and started trying to pull them off of each other as some of the other states helped. When she saw Texas pull the knife, Dixie pulled out her gun, released the safety and fired. The bullet shot the knife from his hand and embedded itself in the wall above Mississippi's head. It was a very close shot, but she had practice. Guns were her bread and butter. Everyone was looking her way now including Alaska, who was startled from her nap by the gunshot.

"That's enough!" Dixie snapped angrily. "Now ya'll better sit the fuck down before I start shootin' off toes!"

Slowly, everyone got off the table and started sitting back down in their seats. Dixie then marched to the door and grabbed a folding chair out from under a security guard before throwing it at California. He caught it and slowly sat as if he had a gun pointed at his head. That would be a pretty picture. Especially if it was Dixie’s gun. Dixie sat down then and rubbed her face tiredly before tapping her pen on the table and looking at each of them. Now they could try to get back to business. She finally managed to take roll and get down to the brass tacks.

"Alright, we were discussin’ armin’ military personnel in bases. You're gonna raise your hand, and when I call on you, you may speak. If any of ya’ll speak out of turn, you forgo federal assistance for a month." "We aren't children," Florida snorted. "And you can't do that!" "The hell you ain't! You just go ahead and try me. See if I’m lyin’.”

Dixie slowly walked off the helipad on the roof of the office building and headed inside. She watched as the chopper lifted off and headed back towards the military base. From there she had flown from Oklahoma where that godforsaken meeting had been held. If she didn't see half the states again for a month it'd be too soon. She was just glad those things only happened every three months. She knew Alfred had likely gone home many hours ago to finish up that Evil Within video game with Tony, but she still needed to get everything ready for the World Summit in Italy at the end of the week.

When she walked into hers and America's shared office on the fifth floor, she was shocked to find that Alfred was still there. His soft snores gently rolled through his vocal cords in groggy waves. One arm was hanging off the edge of the couch, a pen dangling from his fingertips while the other loosely clutched several papers to his chest. Books lay spread haphazardly on the coffee table, all still open and covered in highlighter marks and sticky notes. He'd been working hard to get things done, a rare occurrence when it came to paperwork and research. He avoided that stuff like yellow fever. Dixie smiled softly and slowly eased the pen and paper from his hands before carefully removing his glasses and sitting them on her own nose and picking up everything, gently sitting it on his coffee table.

Alfred's chest rose and fell rhythmically, his lips parted slightly. She checked his work and her eyes widened. He was practically finished with his first draft for his report. He really was trying hard on this. As the grandfather clock in the corner ticked out the seconds, she watched him with a gentle smile she saved for him. She slowly removed her Confederate jacket that still had her medals and rank on it and carefully draped it over him since he was using his bomber jacket as a pillow. When she laid it over him, his eyelids fluttered. However, he thankfully did not stir. Good, he deserved the good night’s sleep after the work he accomplished.

She wrapped her fingers around the lamp's neck and pressed the switch. It clicked and the warm light he'd read by was gone, replaced instead with the pale white light of the moon. It drenched his tanned skin in a soft glow. She looked at him in all of his peace. It was such a rare state for him to be in. He was either playing the hyperactive man child or the world superpower in control of his own new world empire. She stared at his mouth as his lips moved just slightly. She leaned down slowly and pressed her pale lips to his tan forehead, letting her lips rest against his hot skin for a moment before rising.

"Goodnight...Alfred," Dixie whispered before walking to the desk and getting started on the reports, the glasses of Texas perched on the edge of her nose as she started reading Alfred's chicken scratch.

Lincoln is one of the greatest tyrants in American history. He launched a brutal, empirical war to forcibly keep sovereign states in the Union they had voluntarily joined and then voluntarily left. In the first four months of his presidency, he created a complete military dictatorship, destroyed the Constitution, ended the constitutional republic the Founding Fathers instituted, committed horrendous crimes against civilian citizens, overlooked Union soldier war crimes (ex. rape and murder of women and children), and formed the tyrannical, overbearing and oppressive Federal government of today.

The box Lincoln was assassinated in was supposed to be guarded by a policeman named John Frederick Parker who, during intermission, went to a nearby tavern with Lincoln's footman and coachman. He wasn’t at his post when Booth entered the box.

Chapter Text

"Hey Dix," Alfred asked as he looked up from the large stack of papers he was signing and likely not reading. Dixie looked up from where she was sitting on the couch, going over floor plans for the gala that evening. It was mandatory that Alfred be there for this one. When he had to go to such events, most of the guests already knew who he actually was. To the press and others though he was a politician's adopted son. For this generation, he was the son of a mediocre Senator that remained under the radar.

"Yes, Sir?"

"What are you doing for the gala? Are you coming?"

"I am, but as your head of security," she replied curtly as she flipped to the next page on the iPad and zoomed in while leaning back to remove the blurriness as best she could. Damn this farsightedness.

"Oh...does that mean I won't be able to have a dance with you?"

Dixie blushed faintly. She desperately wanted to tell him she'd dance with him all day if he asked her, but that was not her job. Her job was to keep him safe, not swoon into his arms like some lovesick teenager. "There'll be plenty a women who'd be honored to dance with you, Sir. You probably ain't even gonna notice me."

Alfred's smile faltered. "I suppose you're right. You'll be watching my back from the shadows then?"

"Like always, Sir."

Dixie was dressed like many other security personnel at the gala though hers was a little higher end. She was wearing silk designer dress slacks, an olive green collared button up and a fitted vest. She had on her dual shoulder gun holster and the holster on her thigh. The only problem with what she wore was the godforsaken heels. Apparently a female security guard could wear pants, but if she tried to wear running shoes she was being unreasonable? She grimaced as she shifted on the uncomfortable, borrowed footwear.

She stood near the entrance of the building hosting the event and noted the number of cars that came rolling by, all with their own personal chauffeurs who opened the doors for their passengers. Men came dressed in their best suits, complete with polished shoes and neckwear while the women looked beautiful and dazzling in their dresses with full movie star makeup and pretty hair. Some things never changed. The guests presented themselves to the four security guards in charge of the guest list and were ushered in after they'd been checked off.

Dixie stood off to the side, looking at all the guests coming in, searching for suspicious characters. She was looking at the entrance, making sure the security was keeping a good flow with the arriving guests when she heard a group of young women giggling under their breath. Dixie turned towards the driveway, and soon found herself staring right along with them.

Alfred came out of his car with the chosen Senator, dressed in a black suit with satin lapels shinning in the building's light. He wore a crisp white dress shirt under the suit with a black and red fitted vest, and a bolo tie. She came out of her daze when his eyes locked on her. She nodded and averted her gaze in time to hide her blush and return to her work. She watched from the corner of her eye as he was intercepted by an older man—probably one of the many chairmen or agency heads—with his wife and daughter. He looked noticeably displeased by the interruption, but he immediately put on the signature Alfred Jones grin. He walked with them to the main entrance, giving one last look at Dixie. She nodded with a subtle smirk and watched as he disappeared into the crowd.

As soon as he vanished, Dixie slipped in amongst the crowds. "Bloodhound has eyes on the fox," she said quietly into the mic hidden under her hair as she spotted that cowlick and heard that obnoxious laugh further ahead.

"Affirmative, Bloodhound."

"Keep up the good work at the door, Spaniel."

"Roger. Give me a heads up if you see any hot celebrities."

Dixie snorted. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As she watched Alfred weave through the masses, realization hit her. He had come to the gala with no date or escort. That was like putting blood in the water around here. He was unaccompanied, and that alone gave a clear sign to all the women—and some men—present that he was very available.

"Poodle, what's the status on the guest list?" she asked as she ordered bourbon from the bar. She wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but one glass was hardly enough to lower her inhibitions. Hell, one bottle wasn’t enough anymore.

"Everyone's here, and for God's sake, ma'am, I said I wanted to be called Rottweiler."

There was a quiet round of chuckles from the other guards as Dixie snickered and went to stand at the back as the night started. The night commenced with many speeches, like usual, and ended with a few words from the host. Everyone was seated around big round tables, and they were served a full course meal. Soft music filled the ballroom as a live orchestra started playing. Alfred was sitting at a table with nine other people that included two Senators and three states. The rest were two agency officials with their wives and daughters. It didn't at all surprise her that they brought along daughters rather than sons. Even though many years had passed since her time, everything was still the same no matter what feminists or reformists said. Fathers still tried to marry off daughters to well-established men while men looked for pretty young wives to wear like medals.

She could hear high pitched laughter from his table as two women who were sitting closest to Alfred laughed at something he said. Alfred was laughing and smiling pleasantly at them. From this distance though, Dixie couldn't really tell if he was indeed truly enjoying himself or if he was just putting on a show to be polite. It could be either since his taste in women tended to be "anything with awesome tits, stamina and strong thighs" as he put it.

After the dinner, the music grew louder and many people made their way to the dance floor. Alfred had asked one of the girls at his table, and it wasn't long before he asked the second for a dance to keep the peace. He danced magnificently, with a grace and dignity that Britain had taught him quite well back in the day. Dixie's chest tightened when she saw him lean down to whisper in a girl's ear. It got worse when the girl giggled and he stuck his face in her hair.

This was ridiculous. Alfred was her boss, and getting involved like that with him would only jeopardize his safety. What was she thinking?! It wasn’t like he’d stay interested. He never did. Alfred was always moving from one one-night stand to the next. Dixie downed her third glass for the night, enjoying the warmth it provided. It also gave her an excuse for her intense blush on her pale skin. She needed to get some air and get out of these damn shoes.

"Bloodhound stepping out onto the veranda. I need some air. Pitbull, watch the fox."

"Understood, Bloodhound."

Dixie turned off her ear piece and mic, found a bench and sat down, letting out a long, soft sigh. She carefully tugged the shoes off her sore feet and wearily shut her eyes. She just needed to calm down…take deep breaths or something like that. She could hear the music drifting from within without the constant giggles, laughter and chatter that had accompanied it when she had been inside. She rubbed her face tiredly as she tried to recall when she had first started having feelings for Alfred. It was back when Lincoln had just been assassinated. She'd been under house arrest, and Alfred had come home in a drunken stupor. After he'd fallen asleep, she intended to kill him with a knife, but seeing him sleep...something in her refused to hurt him. At the time it had infuriated her, but now...it was a comfort when she went to sleep or the desire got to be too much. 

Alfred couldn't remember the last time he'd been so utterly terrified as he was right now. Not since the Civil War ended a few months ago. In addition to utter horror, he couldn't think of another situation in which he'd been so confused. As a general rule, he preferred being around young, pretty women who were idiotic and harmless. As he stared—mouth hanging open in sheer shock—into those narrowed blue eyes, he slowly realized—and not for the first time—that this particular woman was neither idiotic nor harmless. At least, the knife pressed against the hollow of his throat certainly seemed to hint at that assumption.

She was pretty though. She was wearing a thin white nightgown that was just sheer enough to give him glimpses at her silhouette and large breasts. Hell, he could see that she was cold from this angle. It was a pretty view from where she straddled him, looming over him like a wild cat. Alfred shook the thought though as he felt something stir underneath his sheets. Now was definitely not the time to be horny, especially not with her. Knowing her temperament, she’d try to saw it off.

"H-Hey," he said eloquently, wondering vaguely if it would be possible to grab his gun off the nightstand before she could jam that knife through his windpipe. Not likely. "I'm sure there's no need for that."

"Shut up," she hissed, her face flushed pink. "Just the slightest movement and I could kill you. You’re still weak from the war. It’d be easy."

"Could?" Alfred pointed out hopefully. Maybe there was a way to talk her out of this. "Say, if you're going to kill me, wouldn't it be better to do it when I have clothes on?"

Her gaze dropped briefly to his torso and stomach, barely covered by a blanket that clung to his hips. A pretty blush dusted her cheeks and chest before disappearing in a red rage. "Oh, I dunno," she said pensively with a sneer.

"Confederacy."

She jerked her head upwards a little and in doing so knocked free a few more locks of pale blonde hair so it hung around her face like the mane of a lion. It had been several months since anyone called her by that name, and no one dared call her that in public unless they wanted to be shot by a Union soldier. He took note of the bandage still protecting her throat where he'd cut it at Antietam. It looked like it was oozing. Then he wondered about the bandages on her back. Those probably needed to be changed too. Then he felt the knife shift. Her hand was trembling badly again. It almost looked like it was trying to pry itself off of her wrist.

He'd been expecting her to lash out at him after being forced into being his slave, but he never thought she'd take it this far…not after what happened to Lincoln. What she did to Lincoln was something he never expected either, but he should have. He should’ve known better than to leave his weapon at home. He thought there would be no reason to bring it. But war had hardened Dixie and twisted something in those gorgeous eyes beyond repair.

Sensing her hesitation, Alfred took his chance to be a little bolder. "You don't want to kill me, do you?"

She snarled like a rabid wolf, and the knife shot forward. Alfred was forced to press his head back into the pillow to keep from being stabbed. Confederacy shifted above him from where she straddled his chest. "I do," she spat. "By the powers that be, I want to kill you more than anything, America. You're an awful country…almost as bad as your wannabe President. Despicable. Infuriatin'." There was venom in every syllable she used to lacerate Alfred's ego, and yet he found himself smiling, the fear melting away as he steadily, calmly, met her gaze.

"Thank you."

Confederacy's glare turned all the more menacing and violent because she wasn't having the intended effect. She pressed the knife to his skin. He could feel a slight trickle of blood oozing down his neck onto his pillow. "Dun push your luck, Yankee cunt. If I kill you, I get the entire nation all to myself. The South would rise, and the Union would become my Confederacy."

Alfred hooked his arm around her and pulled her against him to flip them over. He heard the knife clatter to the floor as he pinned her arms to the bed and used his weight to pin her flailing legs. He reached boldly to brush his fingertips across her high cheekbones and proud, noble brow with the eyes of a cruel queen to match. Then she lashed out and bit his finger, making him jerk back as she glared victoriously. Dangerous was the first word that came to mind among...other private things.

"I hate you," she snarled though it sounded like a dejected sob, like she'd given up. "I destroyed an entire country without a second's hesitation, I killed thousands without battin' a fuckin' eye and yet I cain't bring myself to kill you. You, of all people. I wish..."

"Wish what?"

"I wish you just killed me!" she yelled.

Alfred was shocked enough for her to get away. Did she...really feel that way? He knew losing nationhood was painful, but this was proud, strong Dixie. A gal whose pride and gumption they wrote songs and stories about. "I'm...sorry you feel that way," he muttered as he watched her leave. Had he…destroyed her? 

Dixie was drifting in and out of sleep, but her body was ramrod straight. When she felt something brush her cheek, she jerked awake, reaching for a gun when she heard stifled laughter beside her. Shit, someone had seen her sleeping. Dixie cringed at her own unprofessionalism. She turned sharply with a stony, unreadable face, only to see the one and only Alfred Jones. He was sitting beside her on the bench turned towards her, with his left arm perched on the back rest and his left leg propped up comfortably on the seat while the other hung off the side. His hand covered his mouth as he miserably failed to hide his amusement.

Dixie scowled darkly and considered whacking him upside the head.

His eyes twinkled, and he was drowned in another wave of laughter, but this time it was quieter. "You should've seen your face. Priceless, dude," he said, earning him a glare and a slap on the arm.

"Sir, you shoulda woken me instead a lettin’ me sleep on duty."

"But I didn't wanna wake you." Alfred grinned at her innocently though she could see that spark of mischief in his eyes.

"Why are you out here, Sir?" Dixie asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"I saw you come out here earlier, so I followed you. It's nice having some peace and quiet for a change, but I'll have to go back in pretty soon," he frowned and pouted.

"You seem unusually gloomy for a man who's surrounded by beautiful, young, rich women. I think France, Spain 'n Prussia would be cryin’ if they knew you was sulkin' out here like this."

Alfred snorted. "They can have ‘em. They're not really after me. They want power, fame and money, most of which I don't have. It gets tiring after hours of the same thing, but this time you didn't come to save me."

"Ain't my place to intrude."

Alfred rolled his eyes and was about to say something when a familiar tune drifted in through the open door. It was from the time of Dixie's youth when she was still considered an emerging country: Ashokan Farewell. It was one of Dixie's favorite songs that took her back to happier times filled with balls and suitors and horse-drawn carriages. It encapsulated everything elegant and lovely about the South that she could never even hope to embody.

Alfred smiled and stood, straightening his suit. He placed a hand behind his back and offered his other to Dixie. "May I have this dance, my lady?" he asked with a slight bow.

Dixie smiled and stood on bare feet, curtsying before taking his hand. "I'd be obliged, good sir."

He took her left hand in his and placed his right hand on her waist. She reached up and rested her right hand around his broad shoulder then glanced up. He returned her gaze and gave her a genuine smile that filled his whole face. Dixie blushed slightly, and gave a chaste smile of her own though it probably looked more like she was in pain. He stepped back and led Dixie into the first step of the waltz. She followed his lead, synchronizing her steps to his as they glided across the dimly lit veranda.

He pulled her close, his hip pressing into hers every once in a while when he'd turn them. After a few paces, she brushed her thumb gently against the base of his neck and shut her eyes, pretending there never was a war or fighting between them. Maybe if that war hadn’t started, their relationship could’ve been different. Dixie brought her gaze up to see Alfred looking at her. His eyes held an emotion so deep and raw that it took her by surprise. When he saw her notice he turned his face away and twirled her, poorly hiding a blush that rose on his tanned cheeks.

"I always thought you looked nice in hoop skirts," Alfred commented as he drew her back in and they continued. “Made you look more petite.”

Dixie snorted unattractively. "They ain’t conducive to runnin’ and fightin’, Sir. ‘Sides, I doubt I need ta look any more petite than I already am. I’d say five feet tall is petite all on its own."

When the music stopped, they stood frozen there, holding each other even as the next song started playing in the background. Alfred swallowed audibly and squeezed her hip gently before stepping back and bowing. "Thanks for the dance, Dix."

She curtsied. "The pleasure’s all mine, Sir."

Neither of them moved for several long moments. Alfred cleared his throat, blush now blatantly evident. "I…should go back inside. I'm sure they're looking for me by now. Night, Dixie."

"G’night, Sir."

Chapter Text

Dixie absolutely hated flying. With the fiery passion of a thousand suns. There was something terrifying about traveling thousands of miles over the ground in a metal tube so heavy it should never have been in the air in the first place. A tube that, along with its own weight, transported at least a hundred people and an equally heavy cargo, all crammed in a tight space lined with crappy seats and narrow aisles. Then there was the whole shoving your safety into the hands of a man you never set eyes on who was supposed to navigate a plane across the Atlantic at 3 am. Suppressing a shudder, Dixie leaned back in her seat, determined to keep her thoughts as far away from that danger zone as possible. It was no use getting all worked up about it when she couldn't do anything to fix it. In the end, Dixie just settled for the next best alternative and got a teeny tiny bottle of tequila from the stewardess and downed the whole thing in one go. It barely touched her anxiety.

Annoyingly enough, Alfred absolutely loved flying. He loved it almost as much as he loved food. He'd flown for all the wars they'd been involved in since the airplane was invented. Usually he was a ball of unending energy until she managed to slip him a Benadryl. He even tried talking to the pilots a few times, asking if he could ride with them in the cockpit. Usually he just flirted with the stewardesses. Once he even got one to help him join the mile high club in the lavatory. If that wasn't enough, he always tried getting her to ride with him in a jet when he was the one flying. Ha!

However, for this flight, he was very mellow, bordering on grumpy. She'd gotten him up at one in the morning to head for the airport, so obviously he was tired. Dixie was tired herself, but her fear of flight prevented her from sleep. Alfred had curled up to sleep only a few minutes after take-off with his headphones plugged in. He looked much more innocent this way. He was wearing a zip-up Avengers hoodie that was purposefully a size too big and sweatpants with sneakers. His hair was messy, and he looked surprisingly small as he compressed himself into the tiny seat. He looked so much younger without the lines of worry or stress on his face. He seemed at peace.

Dixie sighed, ripping her eyes away from the nation as she felt a familiar tingling in her cheeks, rising up from her neck and leaving a warm sensation. She needed to think about something else for the next...fuck, eight hours. The dim business class lounge really didn't have anything to offer. Everyone else was asleep or buried in some form of entertainment or work. The stewardesses had long since departed with the drink trolley and probably wouldn't be returning in a hurry, and the selection of magazines was enough to make her want to gouge her eyes out. She didn't give a rat's ass if a celebrity's love was "at first sight". How about some real world issues like the oppression of women in Yemen? The rise of drug abuse? There were only her thoughts left to turn back to, making it far more difficult to think of anything soothing. The occasional shudder of the plane that made her knuckles tighten on her armrest wasn't exactly helpful either.

Only a strangled whimper of discomfort made the pseudo nation turn to her neighbor, all remaining thoughts of air travel wiped from her mind. Something was wrong with Alfred. Her eyes quickly did a cursory scan. He wasn't hurt...or even awake, his body merely twitching in the torment of a dream. She heard him say something about "lift up" and "oh god, I burned my own men". It sounded like a dream about Vietnam. He curled up in his seat, knees uncomfortably squished to his chest as another series of twitches rocked his body.

Closing her eyes in a useless attempt of authorizing what she was about to do, Dixie lifted the armrest, reached out and dragged the larger man's upper body into her lap. As soon as he was more stretched out, he relaxed, and Dixie found herself feeling strangely relieved as she watched the man's breathing slow and his legs stretch out to rest against the hull of the plane. His arm reached out and grabbed the hem of her shirt, holding on tightly like a child to its blanket.

Dixie smirked softly before laying a hand gently in his hair. Despite her fear, her eyes were growing heavy. Alfred was like a space heater, his body heat slowly easing her into relaxation. Soon she was struggling to fight off sleep despite the occasional jolt of the plane. Eventually, she did succumb to the call of sleep, her head lolling to the side to rest against her shoulder.

Dixie sat in her dark plantation study, wearing her freshly pressed military uniform. It wouldn't do her much good in a few hours, but she cared about appearances. It was…unusually quiet in her plantation home. All the slaves she had owned had long since vanished into the North or the West. It wasn't like she was there enough to keep slaves anyway. She'd been far too busy with a war to even consider returning home. Only one had stubbornly stayed behind: her lady's maid Constantine. Dixie had no clue why the stubborn old nigger chose to stay in this mansion, but it was...a comfort to Dixie. She'd never admit it to her though. Ever since she lost the war, no, even before then, she had an impending sense of doom, like she was going to die. So, when she returned to her plantation to await death, she was surprised to see Constantine walking out the front door to greet her with a slight bow, a smile and a tender hand.

There was a knock at the door. She watched her lady's maid walk into the study with a third bottle of bourbon in her wrinkled hand. Dixie took it and uncorked it with her teeth before pouring it into her tumbler. When it was halfway full, she stopped and pulled out a small bottle of laudanum. She was hoping an overdose would kill her before America got the chance to do it for her.

"Anythin' else I can get ya ma'am?" she asked.

"Why'd you stay?" Dixie asked darkly, staring at the amber liquid as she swirled it in the moonlight. "Surely you must hate it here, livin' under a tyrant's thumb. I ain't no idiot like some of them other slaveholders. I can see it in ya'll's eyes: pure hate. Why didn't you leave with the rest of 'em?"

"Well, ma'am I figure you'll be needin' someone to help take care a you on account a you bein' hurt and all. I reckon I'm the only one who can do it proper seein' as I helped raise ya. 'Sides, what's an old woman like me gonna do with freedom? My life's passed me by. Let the freedom go to the young'uns. They'll 'preciate it more anyways."

Dixie reached up to her throat where thick bandages protected the stitches in her neck. Then there were the busted up ribs, bullet wound and pulled shoulder to worry about. She looked towards Constantine with a neutral expression leaning towards anger. "You should leave. They'll be comin' to kill me soon. They'll likely burn down the plantation too, and somethin' tells me they ain't gonna care if one little old nigger woman burns with it," she downed her drink and savored the burn as she swallowed.

"You tellin' me to leave, ma'am?"

Dixie rolled her eyes. "No, I'm tellin' you to wash the dishes. What the hell do you s'pose I meant?"

"Where's I s'pose to go?"

"Take a horse. Take my money. I dun give a shit. I'll be dead soon anyway. Just...get gone before they come up on the house."

"Miss Bohannon, can I tells you somethin'?"

"Why not? It ain't like I can do anythin' to stop ya," Dixie grumbled, abandoning the tumbler to drink straight from the bottle.

"They says a lotta things bout how you is a sickness on the land." Dixie flinched and shut her eyes. Constantine had known for many years that Dixie was the embodiment of the Confederacy. She was the only slave to know which was why she had the most prestigious job in the house. "And how you is the Devil's doin'. That you's behind the times and the embodiment a destruction."

"Get to the point," Dixie growled. She didn't need to be insulted any further than she soon would be. "You ain't as bad as they say you is, ma'am. You is like a cactus. You have sweetness in you, but you just got...a lot of thorns."

Dixie took another drink as she pondered the words. "Get lost...before I have to start shootin'." She pulled her gun from her desk and slammed it down, making Constantine jump.

"Yes, Miss Bohannon."

After a long period of silence, Dixie heard horses coming up to the house. Shakily she stood, and stumbled down the stairs, almost breaking her neck in the process. She went to the front door, bottle still in her trembling hand and walked outside to greet her killers head on. She would not cower in the face of Death; she'd spit in it. There were four of them, three of them Yankee soldiers. The fourth one was wearing a black cloak. She assumed he would be her executioner. Two of the men dismounted and walked up the stairs, grabbing her arms roughly. Dixie fought to get lose, breaking a bottle over one of their heads in the process. For that, she got the butt of a rifle to the head.

Her head was pounding when she came to. Looking around, she took note of the wilderness surrounding them. So, they intended to kill her and ditch her body in the middle of nowhere. She wouldn't even get a burial. That seemed fitting, since she rarely got to bury her own dead on the battlefield. She just passed them by. Carefully, she began to sit up, only to bite back a cry of pain. Her hair, now released from its customary bun, was caked with blood. Her blood. It took quite a bit of effort to sit up, trying desperately to not tug her arms in the process to save her ribs and shoulder.

"Looks like she's waking up, General."

"Thanks."

Dixie froze. She knew that voice. That was none other than Alfred Jones himself: America in the flesh. She turned to face him. Rage flooded her veins and she struggled as she glared darkly at him; if only looks could kill. He looked just as weary as she did albeit it a bit better off since he was the nation that won this damn war. Everything in her screamed at her to kill him then and there. He was smiling at her as if this war had never even happened. It infuriated her. She looked over at the hooded figure and watched as he pulled the hood from his head. It was Britain. She knew after the Emancipation Proclamation that he, France and Spain would end all ties, but she never thought he'd come to help kill her. She stared in shock, feeling the pang of intense betrayal. To think, she willingly fucked him on several occasions, and this is how he repaid her?! He looked away from her guiltily, and America crouched in front of her, blocking her view of Britain. He knew what he was doing. He didn't want the other nation to lose resolve.

"How are you feeling, Confederacy?" he asked with a goofy grin. How did this twit ever win against her? Then he frowned and gently pressed his hands against hers. "You're shaking."

"I always do. Ever since Sharpsburg." It took all of her self-control to not spit in his face.

"You mean Antietam?"

"I got this here saber at Antietam," a Yank to the side crooned as he flashed a familiar looking military saber on his hip. "Spoils of victory."

"You call Sharpsburg a victory?" Dixie snorted in disbelief.

"Hell yeah. Me and my boys took the Burnside Bridge. We softened you Rebs up with a nice howitzer from the East Bank. Then we stormed the bridge like the hounds of Hell. I loved watching you greybacks run. Yes, sir, you got the skinny end of the horn that day."

Dixie grinned darkly. "Funny, I was on the other side of that bridge that day. Wanna know why we retreated? We was out of ammunition...from killin' Yankees. McClellan might just as well have been sending them up to a firing kept chargin', and we kept shootin'. Like shootin' dumbass fish in a bloody barrel," she chuckled at the expression on his face. The rage. It was wonderful to have caused that. To cause such chaos. "By the time we was done, there was a bridge of bodies 'cross that river. That musta been when you finally came across. When all the killin' was done."

"Bitch. Hey...Hey! Doesn't matter. We won and you lost."

"I'm getting tired of her talking." Another man interjected. "Wonder what she looks like underneath all the clothes," he murmured, inching further into her personal space. His fingers were running delicately over the gold embellishments on her chest and then wandered over the shoulder emblazoned with her Colonel rank. Without a second thought, she lunged and sunk her teeth into his neck. She bit down and shook her head back and forth until she felt flesh disconnect and blood spray down her throat before she was yanked off. With a sanguine grin, Dixie spit out the blood and chunk of skin at his feet, coloring his boots red.

A hard slap connected with her face, hitting dangerously close to the gaping wound on her head. She gasped, eyes clenching shut in pain and felt the bloodied man grab her arms. He was rough, holding them tightly in his grasp so she couldn't move. She needed to puke. She started heaving, and the man dropped her, backing away. She caught herself before she hit the ground, groaning at the pain in her ribs and arm. All the liquor and opium from before was coming up her throat and hitting the ground and her hands. There went her chance for suicide.

"Get up," the man snarled. Dixie remained where she was. The first reached over and took a stern grip of her shoulders, starting to yank. "I said get up!"

Weakly, she tried to find her center of balance even though her head was still reeling. With a violent tug, they had her on her feet and were yanking off her jacket, throwing it to America.

"Very nice," the man said approvingly as he stared at her. "This undershirt doesn't seem fitting on a so-called Southern belle," he said slowly, his fingers tugging gently on the hem. "And look here, you've gone and bound those pretty breasts."

"Fuck you, Yankee sodomite," she snarled viciously as she kicked at his groin. She wouldn't go down without a fight.

"That's no way for a lady to talk."

He grabbed the front of her shirt and viciously ripped, throwing her off balance and making her hit the ground on her back. She felt something in her ribcage shift and screamed through clenched teeth. Her breath came out in a loud wheeze. Then he started going for her trousers. She knew what was coming after this. After being the victim of several Creek raids during and before the War of 1812, she was accustomed to experiencing and seeing what men did to captive women. She'd die before she let him anywhere near her. She fought and struggled until they were wrestling on the ground.

"Cut it out," America snapped finally, pulling her away from the man and into his chest. For a moment, he just ran his hands through her hair gingerly. She almost let her guard down, but then he ran his fingers over her back where her Constitution was. "I found it. Start tying her down."

Dixie paled as her arms were tied to two adjoining trees and she was forced to kneel, her arms aching with the strain. She knew what they were doing. They weren't going to just kill her...they were going to take everything she was and destroy it before they killed her just to break her down. It was like ripping out a person's soul. Tears obscured Dixie's vision as she weakly struggled. Her head was jerked back as the bloodied man took a knife to her hair until it was little more than stubble. The men took off the last of her shirt, leaving her bare and alone. She sobbed shakily when she saw one of them grab a lit torch and step behind her.

"Confederacy," America spoke from behind her. "By the power bestowed into me, President Abraham Lincoln, I hear by declare your pseudo-nation of immorality and bondage of our fellow man annexed. However, your life will be spared to serve as a reminder to the people of this glorious Union. You will embody everything we strive to avoid. You will lose your nationhood, you will become slave to your superior nation, America, as atonement for your wrongdoings, and you will be despised by the people you once protected."

Then came the hot, searing pain of fire on her skin. She screamed unhindered and strained against the rope, her back curving at an unnatural angle like every bone in her body was suddenly made of paper. It seemed to take forever. She could smell the sickly sweet burning of flesh and could feel her skin bubbling up and falling off at her feet. Her muscles locked, and soon she was merely dangling while they burned the rest of her away like she was nothing more than an infection to be purged. That's all she was though wasn't she?

"Britain, go ahead."

Dixie watched as Britain came into her line of vision with an old book in his hands. He put some sort of black ooze on his fingers before painting a cross on her chest. He stepped back and began chanting quietly, occasionally moving his hands or sprinkling something on the air and into the fire. It sounded like Latin. Then the pain came. Red writing appeared on her chest where the cross was sitting, appearing to be aflame and carved by some sort of hellish knife. She screamed as it seemed to burn and carve its way down to her very bones. She buckled over and started vomiting blood and liquor violently, and her whole body began to seize up. When he finished chanting, she felt her consciousness beginning to ebb away. Only the hisses of her raspy breathing were audible.

"Get her cleaned up," she heard America say. "We have a long trip ahead of us."

Dixie woke with a start. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her. Alfred was busy playing..."Plz Stay Calm" on his iPhone, violently bashing at zombies with his thumb with a goofy grin on his face. They were less than an hour away from landing too. Fuck, how long had she been asleep? And why in God's name didn't Alfred wake her?! Then she realized what woke her. A male passenger was arguing with his...wife?

"Gianna, why do you have to be such a fucking puttana?" The six foot blond slurred as he stood and staggered into the main aisle. He looked like he'd been knocking back drinks the entire flight. He was a large, muscular man, who looked like some sort of athlete. His companion was the willowy brunette antagonizing the monstrous man. The other passengers were becoming uncomfortable, shooting worried looks at each other as the fighting escalated. Even Alfred looked up and pulled out one earbud to watch and listen. They were getting closer, and it was making Dixie nervous.

She stood and put her arm on him as he staggered towards the cockpit just as he passed their seat. "Sir, you need to go back to your seat." "Get the hell out of my way!" He unceremoniously decked Dixie in the mouth, knocking her back several steps.

Alfred shot forward and caught her around the waist so she wouldn't hit her head. "You okay?"

"Federal Air Marshal, stand down!"

Dixie tasted copper and touched her fingers to her mouth. Blood. That ugly no good son of a bitch! Dixie glared darkly and shot up towards him, landing a strong uppercut with the heel of her hand. When he staggered and plopped on top of an elderly Asian man, the agents aimed at her and told her to stand down. She glared darkly at them and pulled her Homeland Security badge. Hey, Al was the homeland, and she was his security. She stepped back as they cuffed the man, and Alfred sat her down with a worried stare. The stewardess handed him a napkin filled with ice, and he pressed it to her lip gingerly. Dixie hissed and jerked away from it as he dabbed away the blood dripping down her chin.

"Looks like it hurts," he said as he continued until the bleeding began to slow.

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

Alfred suddenly looked upset before covering it with a smile. "Next time, I'll just have to save you then. No arguments."

America's dream was of the Battle of Ia Drang, the first major battle of the Vietnamese War. The opposing sides were extremely close together, and air support was called in to change the tides. Because of this, napalm was dropped on our own soldiers killing and wounding many.

Laudanum was a commonly used opiate in the antebellum South. Its addicts were commonly wealthy white Southern women because it was used to ease "women's pains". Constantine's case was actually quite common.

Many slaves chose to stay with their masters (they were now being paid and given better housing and food) because they were old, had emotional ties to the family or felt they had no skills usable in the free "white man's" world.

The black magic used by Britain was used so Confederacy would survive losing her nationhood. It bound her to America's fate but kept him safe from her fate. She is able to stay alive for several centuries because she feeds off of art of America. When America is hurt, he feeds off of Dixie.

Chapter Text

They got to the hotel at almost two in the morning. By then, Dixie and Alfred were exhausted and ready to get settled in to their room. The poor young girl behind the front desk looked like she was only half there as she handed Alfred the key cards and told them about the wakeup call. She mentioned that they were the last ones in their party to get there since the “delegate” from Canada had left a day earlier than them. They were both quiet all the way up to the eighth floor before security stopped them at the door. Dixie flashed her badge and was immediately let through after Alfred was cleared. The whole floor had been reserved for the nations. Dixie looked around the nice hotel as they walked down the cream colored halls. Their room was on the far left end of the floor which meant they only had a single set of neighbors. Since Britain and France were with them, it was a blessing for everyone involved.

It was dark when they quietly slipped in to see France and Britain sharing the furthest bed from the door. It was an unspoken rule that America and Dixie always shared a bed even if Dixie rarely ever slept in it. Even in sleep they looked aggravated with each other, as far to the edges as they could get and backs to each other. Unfortunately, as Dixie knew by experience, France moved a lot in his sleep and was very grabby. Back during the Civil War when she'd stay at France's for diplomacy purposes, she'd usually end up on the floor by morning. His hand always managed to stay latched to her chest though. She also knew from experience that Britain liked space when he slept.

"You go ahead and use the bathroom first," Alfred whispered as he started putting his things away in the already crammed closet.

Dixie nodded and slipped into the shower with her supplies and a change of clothes. It felt nice to wash the day away and use the privacy to think. The scalding water felt especially good on her sore muscles and the bruise forming on her fat lower lip. She was in and out within twenty minutes and started brushing her teeth and blow drying her hair at the same time.

Then there were tossing noises and bedsprings squeaking in protest outside. "Stop kicking me, frog!" Britain snapped tiredly.

"I'm not doing it on purpose!"

"Well, then do something with those freakishly long legs other than kick me!"

"'ey, don't blame me if you got shorted in ze European gene pool, black sheep." Alfred snorted at the jab before ducking into the bathroom to avoid a shoe thrown in the direction of his head.

Then there was the sound of bedsprings again and then a solid thump that could easily have been a fist hitting muscle. "Ow! What ze 'ell?!"

"Hey! You can't have the entire blanket!"

"Why not? You'll just throw it off in ze night, and my skin will get chapped if I get too cold."

Dixie and Alfred wordlessly switched off in the bathroom and Dixie emerged wearing plaid cotton lounge pants that swished over her bare feet and an oversized army tshirt. Neither of the nations even noticed her as she padded over to the table next to their bed. She glanced out the window, checking for potential sniper positions before getting all her gun cleaning materials and guns and sitting them out on the table before sitting in the chair.

"Mon Dieu! Put on some socks or something! Your feet are like ice!"

"They wouldn't be cold if you'd share the fucking blankets!" Dixie looked up in time to see Britain slide both legs over to France's side, prompting France to kick him quite purposefully, aiming for his crotch.

"Boys," she said teasingly. "Don't make me separate you."

"Ohonhon, I'd be fine with you sleeping between us, ma belle chérie. It will be just like old times, non?"

"Can it, pervert! That's not what she meant!" His eyes narrowed. “Christ, what happened to your lip?”

“Got into a fistfight on the plane.”

Alfred walked in wearing a only Hulk boxers. It was amazing how fast he got in and out of the shower. How did he get clean in such a short amount of time? With a yawn, he plopped down in the center of his bed and took off his glasses. "Dix? You need these?"

Dixie held out her hand as she started sitting out her cleaning kit. When she heard Alfred throw them, she glanced up and caught them just as they were hitting the ground. She showed him the glasses were unharmed before putting them on the edge of her nose. She heard him burrow under the covers and within minutes, he was snoring softly, sound asleep and spread eagle.

"Bloody hell, how does he do that?" Britain hissed.

"Can you two sleep with this lamp on?" Dixie asked quietly.

"Oui,,” France yawned as he rolled into his stomach.

"Sure," Britain said as he rolled into his side, facing away from his bedmate.

It was only a few minutes before their breathing evened out and Britain's rather loud, throaty snores began. When she knew they were asleep, she started getting to work. The instruments to clean her guns were laid out on a cloth, perfectly organized and efficient. As a solider, efficiency could be the difference between life and death. First she'd be cleaning her smaller firearms since she used those more often. After Dixie clicked the chamber forward to make sure it was unloaded, she removed the magazine, letting it drop into her palm. Both hands were steady as a surgeon’s. Guns were the only things that did that anymore. With a satisfying click, she moved the slide forward and then released. It was as familiar and simple to her as breathing.

Breathe in. Engage the second lug with the safety on the slide.

Breathe out. Turn the gun over and push the pin out, making the slide release and come forward; then remove the slide release.

She couldn't count how many times she’d done this before, and she had no idea how many times she would do it again to protect Alfred. All she knew was would never hesitate to protect him even if it meant throwing away her own life. She knew she was expendable, and she had come to terms with it in her own way. If someone had told her she'd feel this way about him when she was first "enslaved", she'd have shot them...three times. Maybe more depending on her mood.

Her right hand gripped the slide firmly, her hands steady and dry. She released the safety and pulled forward, taking the slide of the gun off with it. Dixie laid it on an old, dirty cloth that had several years worth of oil and grease stains on it. She removed the guide rod and recoil spring, then pulled out the barrel itself, marveling at the design. It looked so innocuous, and yet that barrel had taken lives—killed fathers and brothers, sisters and mothers...children too. Anything she was ordered to do she did without question. Even if she disagreed. It was just plastic and metal until you put it back together. The gun was apart, and for a moment she looked at it, really studied it. Her mind wandered as she used rags made from old shirts to clean and re-lubricate the parts.

She had no need for expensive cleaning cloths that went for more than thirty dollars when a rag worked just as well, maybe better. They were soft, worn by time, and didn't scratch, and they were porous enough to soak up excess grease and oil without getting her fingers too dirty in the process. When the cleaning was over, she slowly put the gun back together the same way she had taken it apart. A satisfied smile crawled across her face when she finally pushed the magazine back into the holder with a click and she put the completed gun back down on the cloth. She aimed at the wall, making sure everything felt right before dry firing. Perfect.

Next she picked up her hefty sniper rifle.

Confederacy's frown was starting to become a permanent fixture on her face ever since South Carolina decided he'd secede without consulting her first, leading to her sudden growth spurt and semi-nationhood. Many Southern states had long been pushing for secession since the government was choking the life out of them even though they promised to let them keep their slaves. While all the Northern states were healthy, the Southern states were malnourished and sickly. They snapped. Confederacy had been holding them off, telling them to gather supplies and strength. Now she was in the middle of a war. But in a war, they needed allies, so Confederacy was in Europe trying to curry favor with some of the other nations. So far, things weren't going as planned.

Spain openly accepted her request, but Russia quickly denied her, having favored America. Now she was staying in Britain's home trying to win him over with coquettish smiles, intelligence and sharp wit. He wasn't as hard a sell as the others since he and America weren't on speaking terms. Britain still wanted revenge against the former colony and present jackass. He also needed her cotton for his delicate economy. However, because slavery was a whispered about issue in the war, Britain was wary of joining sides just yet. He also wanted to see how she fared against America in the coming months of fighting. He had seen America’s ferocity firsthand, but he also knew she matched him in rage and ferocity.

Currently they were dining together in Britain's home away from Parliament, his older siblings and Buckingham Palace which Confederacy was grateful for. He'd be easier to persuade if he was alone and didn’t have whispered suggestions in his ears. Throughout the meal they spoke very little, only every once in a while doling out small talk that was viewed as customary. Afterwards, they retired to his study where Britain offered her wine, but Confederacy instead took scotch. As a woman, it was important to look and act like a man to show she wasn't soft. This was a man’s world after all.

"So," Confederacy asked as she sipped her drink. "How long ya plannin' to pussyfoot around?"

Britain frowned. "I can't drag Parliament about like a horse and bridle."

"What about you?"

"I've said before that I was sympathetic to your plight, or at least some of it."

"If we had sex would it make ya a bit more sympathetic?" she asked bluntly.

England spluttered and started into a coughing fit. Confederacy waited patiently for him to calm down. "Pardon my outburst. We just...don't usually jump right to it like that."

"I'm aware," Confederacy said, crossing one booted leg over the other. She was wearing her military uniform. "Y'all Europeans tend ta beat around the bush for a few days before gettin' down to brass tacks. Where I'm from, we like gettin' down to business ‘fore the milk curdles. I'm in a war, Britain. I ain't got the luxury of time."

There was a long period of silence as Britain stewed in his own mind. It had been her plan all along to spring this on him unexpectedly. She didn't want to give him too much time to think about it. Time to think would lead to doubts that she couldn't afford. Truthfully, she had plenty of time to tour Europe looking for allies. The war was just getting under way, and the states were making sure to hold down the front. She just didn't need Britain to know that.

"Alright, it's a deal."

Confederacy smirked. "About damn time. I was beginnin' ta think you'd never answer."

Confederacy watched him stand and followed him to a comfortable bedroom done in neutral beiges and tans. He shut the door behind her as she removed her glasses representing Texas and sat them on his nightstand. They faced each other for a moment before Confederacy walked forward, her boots clicking with each step, and reached forward. Her fingers scraped against the light stubble on his cheek as she ran her fingers up into his hair. He leaned into the touch before tipping her chin up between his thumb and forefinger, leaning in for a kiss.

The kiss started slow as strong, slender hands stroked her sides. Confederacy ran her hands up his veiny, sinewy biceps to his shoulders. Then she was tipped back until she was pressed into the bed as Britain's lips started to move down her jaw. She pushed him away just enough to get her jacket off before Britain started tugging at her undershirt. When he undid that, he started unwrapping her chest. He paused for a moment to look when he noticed the large mottled scar just under her right breast and traced it gingerly.

"There was a raid by Creek Nation. I was there and...it didn't end well." Confederacy didn't really want to think about exactly how she unwillingly lost her virginity. It wasn't a pleasant memory, and at a time like this it was a nuisance. England seemed to notice her discomfort and apologized quietly as he started pressing kisses along Confederacy's collarbone and neck.

She lurched up with a gasp when Britain's tongue grazed her left nipple. "Oh, shit," she hissed out, mostly to herself, her hands shooting into Britain's hair, stroking through the messy locks.

Britain hummed in response, his tongue flickering against her nipple before moving to the other, putting his hands to good use by squeezing them. Not to be outdone, Confederacy ran her fingers over his chest, discreetly undoing the buttons before pushing the shirt off of him and going for his belt. She expertly undid the buckle and started undoing the laces. Britain pulled away and stripped entirely, leaving Confederacy with a light blush, staring at the nation in front of her.

He was pale much like she was, but his hair was a startling shade of yellow that she hadn't seen before, and those bright green eyes made him seem supernatural. He was built like a runner with lean, sinewy muscle and excellent legs that led up to enticing, well-sized credentials, starting to rise proud from a blond patch of hair. She didn't have long to look though before Britain was back between her legs teasing her, making Confederacy's eyelids shut with the electric sensation that shot straight to her core. With slender, calloused fingers she reached down so her fingers could just graze the top of that golden trail that led to what she wanted.

Britain groaned and bit her nipple as he arched his back up, bringing his credentials within Confederacy's reach. Green eyes met blue as her hand wrapped around it, testing the heft and girth the way she might the barrel of a pistol. The hot flesh twitched in her hand, and her cool thumb gently massaged the underside of the head, causing Britain to swear softly and bury his face in her neck as he thrust into her hand. She grinned and took the opportunity to flip them so she was on top and in control.

She licked at Britain's neck, biting and kissing a prominent trail down before slowly sliding her body down his chest, scraping his nipples lightly with her nails. She watched with a grin as he gasped and arched into her touch, his eyes closing. All the while she hurriedly shucked off her pants and slid down until she was on her knees before him like she was in prayer. She knew the former empire would likely enjoy being worshiped again, and she wasn't wrong judging by the way his credentials twitched. Her mouth filled with saliva as she leaned forward to run a wet tongue along the underside which caused the other nation to shiver pleasantly. Breathing in produced a pleasant scent of musk and tea that fit him well.

She pulled him into her mouth and started sucking in earnest, looking up at him with the most innocent, virginal eyes she could muster. Britain swore as a hand buried itself in her hair; Confederacy was grinning in her mind as he pushed her down further. She had him. She sucked and bobbed as it bumped the back of her throat, and soon, Britain was a moaning mess. He could barely pull her off to stave off orgasm judging by how it swelled so suddenly. As they caught their breath, they remained in their respective positions. Britain then pulled her up into a kiss and rolled her onto her back before pulling her further up onto the bed so their feet didn't hang off the side. He surged up Confederacy's body, capturing her lips in a demanding kiss that stole her breath away as he forced his tongue between her lips.

He lifted up, grasped himself firmly and guided himself to Confederacy's entrance. The head bumped against wet lips, parting them before pushing all the way in in one thrust. Britain grunted and Confederacy moaned wantonly. In the following moments, Britain stayed still, only rocking his hips against hers. "Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.

Confederacy took a deep breath as if having him inside her had knocked the breath from her lungs. "Yeah," she huffed.

He didn't need any more encouragement. He slowly rocked his hips into hers while Confederacy helped by hooking her legs over his hips, pulling him in deeper. His thrusts soon got rougher, and soon Confederacy felt him hit something that didn't give way: her cervix. Stars flashed behind her eyes in that moment. "Fuckin' hell!" she moaned, scrambling for purchase on his back, her nails clawing at his back. "Shit, yes! Do that again.”

"Bloody hell," Britain moaned. "I thought I'd never get a rise out of you."

"I ain't no doll. Fuck me like a strumpet and maybe I'll scream for you," Confederacy purred in his ear.

Britain moaned and slammed into her, hooking one of her legs up over his shoulder before latching onto her neck. Confederacy groaned and pushed back to meet him. His pubic bone ground into her clit, making her tighten around him and moan. She arched her back and screamed as he pounded harder and started biting, leaving marks that would last for days.

"God, Confederacy!" He came hard, never seeming to stop as he kept thrusting through his orgasm.

A few more thrusts and Confederacy was done for. She clawed his back in and arched into him as he buried his face in her neck, leaving her to gasp and moan as she came down from her high. They lay in that position, with him on top of her and her holding him, for half an hour before he rolled off and Confederacy stood and started getting dressed again despite the seed dripping down her thigh.

"Where are you going?" Britain asked tiredly.

"I'm leavin’. I'm needed on the front lines," she said as she attached her saber and pistol to her belt.

"Will you be by again?" "Is that an invitation?" Britain cleared his throat, covering his lower half with a sheet as he blushed.

"I wouldn't…turn you away." Confederacy grinned.

"Then I’ll return when your Parliament has made a decision.” That seemed like a pretty good incentive.

Confederacy groaned as Constantine cinched her waist in a corset before helping her into a button up blue bodice with white lace trim and long bell sleeves. Her skirts were equally as uncomfortable. Her hair was in an intricate updo with a few select ringlet curls falling over her shoulder. Next came makeup, perfume and shoes. When she was done, she slowly rose. She knew feminine beauty and charm was the quickest way to sway France. That and sex. She relieved Constantine and headed towards his bed chambers, walking down the halls as if the large house were her own.

After her visit to Britain's home, Confederacy could only hope France would be as easy to persuade. Since he was a master at manipulation, she'd have to be cautious to not get caught red handed. She remembered him during the War of 1812. He was a cunning bastard with a sexuality and ferocity that threw even her off guard if she wasn't ready for it. She walked into his bed chambers which apparently also served as an office, hands clasped together in front of her as her shoes clicked on the floor.

"Oh my, un ange 'as graced me with ‘er presence," he said, taking her hand and pressing his lips to it, looking up at her flirtatiously. "What 'ave I done to deserve such beautiful companionship?" He looked different from when she saw him last. His hair was longer now and was pulled back with a black ribbon. He also looked less pale and gaunt, though she suspected it was because of the lack of the Napoleonic wars. He wore a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he wore an intricate burgundy waistcoat with silver embellishments and burgundy trousers. Well, he certainly lived up to his country's reputation for wearing bold clothing.

"Nothin' yet," Dixie said coyly. "But hopefully that'll all change soon."

France smirked. "Hmm, getting straight to business. I like zat in a lady. You're quite ze business woman." France poured them each a glass of wine. "Now, tell me what 'as brought such a beautiful young lady into my 'ome."

"I need you to help me."

Confederacy watched as he took a sip of red wine and gave her a slow once over. "What do you mean?"

Confederacy's eyes narrowed. They both knew that he knew full well there was a war going on across the Atlantic. All the major powers knew. "Y'know damn well what I mean, France,” she growled as her temper flared with impatience. "I need you to help me with this war, and in return I'll give you what you want."

"I 'ave to wonder, Confederacy, just 'ow committed are you? War is 'ard, and ze toll great. Are you willing to do anything to be rid of 'im? Because I'm not willing to stake my reputation on ze losing side."

Confederacy glared darkly, her face changing from feminine to battle hardened in an instant. "Yes...I'm prepared to do anythin'. Ever since they started bleedin' us dry and the election of that tyrant. I'm doing this to salvage what little dignity my states have left before America destroys it all."

France was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "If you are truly willing to do anything, zen give me your body." Well, that was easier than she expected. She didn't even have to bring it up. "Do zat and I will fund ze building of a few ships, and I'll continue our trade agreements. If you are still going strong in a year, we can discuss sending in soldiers."

Confederacy grinned. "You have a deal."

Confederacy watched as France walked over to her. He ran a hand through her hair, carefully releasing the pins so her hair fell around her face like a pale blonde sea, a single tuft of hair poking out at the back; it was a cowlick very similar to Alfred’s. Then he pressed his lips hers, taking her by the waist and pulling her against him. The kiss was deep and passionate but unhurried. Confederacy pressed her hands to his chest as his tongue slipped into her mouth to sensually rub hers. Oh yes, he was good. He kissed from Confederacy's lips to her ears, whispering filthy things in soft French as he guided her back until her knees hit the bed and she crashed into the duvet.

France moved to sit between Dixie's legs and ran his hands up her sides, over her stomach, and up to her chest until his fingers brushed over her breasts. He quickly undid the buttons until her breasts were free and let his fingers play, softly pinching and tugging until her nipples perked, then lowering his mouth to one as his thumb rubbed the other. He rolled the bud with his tongue, sucking harshly every once in a while. Confederacy shuddered at the feeling of France's skilled tongue on her sensitive skin. He pulled away with a 'pop' and blew cold air onto the moist flesh before he moved to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment before kissing back up Confederacy's collarbone until he reached her lips. He was certainly more attentive than Britain had been.

She grabbed his waistcoat and pulled him into another, more fiery kiss. His hands ran down her sides and pulled away to hike her dress up to her waist. He kissed her more forcefully when he discovered her lack of undergarments and pressed his hand against her cunny. "You were expecting zis," he said more than asked.

"Are ya complainin'?"

"Never, ma chérie." France kissed down her neck and chest, nipping and licking at the soft skin before his head was between her legs. Looking up at Confederacy, he licked his lips and pressed a kiss to her slit before parting her folds with his tongue, letting his eyes fall shut as he focused on his new task.

"Ah! Christ!" Confederacy couldn't help but throw her head back at the unfamiliar attention. Usually men were more focused on their own pleasures than hers, and many thought the practice unclean. Instinctively, her hand moved down, fisting it into France's hair.

France smirked triumphantly. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he buried his face between her legs, shoving his tongue into her warmth as his nose brushed her clit. He held her hips down with one hand while his other was beginning to strip off his clothing judging by all his wriggling around. After only a few moments, an intense rush of sensation froze her. She felt herself come into France's mouth with a final gasp, her neck arched until she could see the headboard. Her toes curled into the sheets as her body went stiff from orgasm.

France sat up on his knees, wiping his mouth as he stared down at her looking smug. Confederacy didn't like that look, and it brought her down from her euphoria faster than she would've liked. "Did you enjoy that, ma chérie?"

Confederacy didn't say anything but intended to return the favor. She began to run her tongue down his chest to his trail of light blonde hair, but he stopped her. "What're ya doin'?"

"Tonight I want to spoil a beautiful femme. Pleasing me will come later." He finished tugging down his trousers and tossed them aside, pulling Confederacy's hips up into his lap then lining himself up and thrusting in slowly until he was buried to the hilt. "Quoi?" he asked in mild surprise before leering lecherously. "You've done this recently 'aven't you, mon amour?"

"Last time I checked, France," Confederacy moaned as he pulled back and thrust himself forward again. "That ain't none of your business." She wrapped her legs around France's waist and angled herself as best she could to get more.

Confederacy moaned as France thrust hard and fast, his kisses moving down her throat where he licked and sucked. He kissed her anywhere he could reach, as if thanking her. She could feel herself getting closer as she moaned, her fingers threading themselves into France's long hair. In return, he thrust roughly into her, working to bring them both to completion. He murmured into Confederacy's ear, praising her and promising a swift victory for her cause. Confederacy grasped tightly onto France for support and finished for a second time. France finished in just a few more thrusts, his seed filling her.

He gathered himself before crushing her with his weight and withdrew from Confederacy, laying back on the bed and taking enough of a courtesy to not fall on her as he relaxed and caught his breath. When Confederacy came down from the high, she lifted herself up and began to get redressed. When she was done, she looked back at him and nodded. Their pact was sealed.

"All of zis will be done under ze table. I can't afford a war with Amerique right now."

"I understand. I'll be by again in a few months."

"I can't wait,” he said lecherously. “I’ve ‘eard wonderful things about zat mouth of yours.”

Chapter Text

It was five thirty in the morning; almost time for the wakeup call Germany had arranged for all their rooms. That's when it started. Alfred usually slept like a log, so when he started tossing and turning, mumbling feverishly under his breath, Dixie knew something was wrong. He was prone to nightmares and got them regularly, but he hid it well with those big blue eyes and that smile. Usually he got through them on his own without the need to be woken up, so, for the time being, she remained in her shadowed corner watching him and the others before doing a cursory window glance. She watched as Britain sat up and stood. Thinking he was going to the bathroom, she looked back out the window.

When she looked back, he was cautiously stretching his hand out to touch Alfred's shoulder, hissing his human name under his breath. Dixie quickly stood and caught his wrist just as he grabbed his shoulder, making the older nation jerk and glare at her. She shook her head no and watched Alfred's increasingly frantic fight with the sheets. Shit, this wasn't looking good. It didn't help that Britain was awake either. Alfred was prideful, and he didn't like others to see him at his weak points. Not even her.

"Let me wake him up," Britain hissed at her. "He's having a nightmare. We need to wake him."

"No, waking him will just make it-"

“Oh God, no,” Alfred whined.

“Shit.”

Alfred, Dixie, Psalms and Al-Qadir were walking down a dusty Afghani road. The streets were alive with livestock, merchants, kids and run down cars either puttering along or abandoned in the streets to be used as homes for orphans. It reminded Alfred of Michigan except it was way hotter and a little less clean. Man, he missed home. He wanted to hug all of the states and eat a decent burger and maybe some of Dixie's fried chicken. Oh, and soda! An ice cold coke would hit the spot right about now. Right now though, they were going to check a possible terrorist hideout that was on the edge of their patrol sector. Just his luck. No soda or burgers for him.

Psalms and Al-Qadir were both ranked above Dixie and himself, but they were also both human and had no idea who they were walking with. Psalms, an Illinois native, was cracking jokes with a cigarette between his lips. He loved rap and R&B. He was actually going to go to college to become a music producer. His helmet was lopsided and his uniform unbuttoned at the top. He tended to be carefree and easy going. He and Alfred got along well for obvious reasons.

Al-Qadir was a naturalized American citizen from Iraq, and he was the more...chaste of the group though they assumed that had a lot to do with his Judaism. Anytime one of them cracked a dirty joke or said something vulgar, he’d turn red, chastise them and then stomp off. Alfred didn’t know a whole lot about him except that he had three kids waiting back home in New Mexico. The guy usually kept to himself as the leader. He said it was unwise to get too personal with the team.

Dixie, as usual, was stoically quiet with a half-finished cigarette between her lips and remnants of tobacco on her nostrils. Alfred thought the habit was disgusting, but he understood why she did it. She only smoked during times of war because it helped her focus. During the World Wars, she started snuffing pure tobacco grown by Louisiana Purchase back home. As usual, she looked like the poster child for Type A personality with her hair pulled back tight and tucked into her helmet and her pristine uniform. She was the only female in the United States cleared for infantry combat duty.

As they approached the building, they started to become more alert and wary. Once they got to the building, they pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the doorway. Al-Qadir gave the commands to go in. They had to make sure it was clear, and if it wasn't, they needed the element of surprise on their side. Dixie would be second to go in after Al-Qadir then Psalms would follow her. Alfred volunteered to take up the rear, the protector's position. He was the hero after all.

The building was dark and dilapidated and smelled of mold and oil. He noticed a baby carrier and tensed. God, he hoped there weren't kids here. As they walked, Alfred noticed the tell-tale signs of radicals: the flags, the dulled blades with crusted blood, the writing on the walls, the guns. It made him sick and angry just looking at it; he could only imagine how Dixie felt. Suddenly they stopped; Al-Qadir motioned for them to get ready to barge into a steel door where there were sounds of movement. Psalms crept to the front of the group and pulled out a mirror on an extendable pole. He held up two fingers meaning there were at least two people.

Since he was strongest, Al would be the one to kick it open. Everyone got ready to go in, guns ready as he took a step back. Then, with all his strength, he raised his foot and slammed it into the door. He watched as sparks flew until it hit the far wall several feet away. Well if that didn’t get their attention, nothing would. They spilled inside while the occupants were still distracted. There were four inside. Three men, one woman.

"Put your hands up! Up where I can see them!" Alfred yelled, motioning with his weapon. He was still working to learn all of the dialects of Arabic, so he used English.

"Ifra yedaik! Ifra yedaik!" Al-Qadir barked in Arabic gruffly as he was a native speaker. They looked somewhat surprised that one of them knew their language so fluently.

Psalms started to step forward to search them as they raised their hands, bit then six gunshots rang out through the building. The men and woman they were barking orders at fell over, oozing blood from two holes in their chest and one in the head. It was a professional hit, and it came from behind. Shit, what if Dixie got hit? Thinking there was a fourth suspect, they all turned with their weapons raised and ready to fire.

He should've known it'd be Dixie that fired on them. She looked unfazed, almost excited, as she lowered her weapon. Her eyes, once calm, were a torrent of fiery passion and rage. Her cheeks were lightly flushed, and he could see her pupils were dilated. Dixie had shot them all, and she enjoyed it. She got like this during war.

After all, he admitted, she was a child of war. He found her just before his Revolution. He tried his hardest to keep her sheltered, but he couldn’t stop her from seeing some bloodshed. Then there was the War of 1812. He had been separated from her, and he couldn’t prevent her from getting hurt or getting blood on her hands. After that war, she had changed. She had adapted herself to become a terrifying embodiment of war and destruction veiled behind a mask of indifference. After that, she began enjoying bloodshed and torture and pain. It was…disturbing to many nations. Except maybe Russia.

Al-Qadir was understandably furious with Dixie for defying orders and started screaming at her. "What did you do, Bohannon?! What do you think you're doing?! They were complying! They were putting their hands up! You think you're God and you can decide who lives and who dies?! That's not our job!"

Dixie ignored him, her eyes glazed, and started looking over one of the bodies, checking them for possible intel or explosives. She didn’t seem fazed by the fact that she was getting blood on her.

"Hey," Al-Qadir grabbed Dixie's arm and pulled her away from the bodies. "We're here to help people, not slaughter civilians. Just because you have a grudge against radicals doesn't give you the right to kill people!”

Dixie ripped her arm away. "Qadir, if I gave a shit ‘bout your opinion, I’da asked ya for it. This is a war. If you wanna help people and save lives, ya chose the wrong place to be. There ain’t no such thing as morals in war," she snapped with venom. "Especially not our enemy. They have no problem killin’, so why should I?”

"They have no morals, but we do! We haves rules, Bohannon! Protocol! Or else we're no better than them!"

Dixie rolled her eyes. "Ain't no rules in Hell, Qadir. 'Sides, if they're in a bomb shop, I doubt they're all that innocent. Even if they are, it's a justifiable loss,” she said as she wiped her hands on the dead woman’s back. “We need to continue the mission. Psalms, ya got the camera?"

"Fuck you, Bohannon,” Qadir spat. That was the first time anyone had ever heard him swear.

"Already got it turned on...oh God."

Instantly on high alert, the rest of the team went in, guns at the ready. Alfred was the first one to see it. Dixie and Qadir came in seconds after. There were...dead babies covered in blood on a rusty table. Their chests had been cut straight down the middle and then grossly stitched back together like something out of a horror movie. At the bottom of the cut, a wire protruded from their bellies and connected to a kill switch. There were eight of them. Three were wrapped in blankets, ready to go, and the others were just left out there...naked like thrown away toys.

“My point exactly,” Dixie growled as she stepped forward to look at them. The fire in her eyes was now replaced with pain. “This is why morals are pointless.”

Then he...he thought he saw one of them move. Yes, the one that was still cut open without the bomb in him! It was alive! He saw it move. He could save at least one. He reached out to cradle it, but Dixie and Psalms held him back. That baby...it needed him. It needed him to save it. Why were they restraining him?! He jerked away and picked up the baby, but it was cold and stiff in his arms. With a sob he clutched the infant to his chest and fell to his knees. This was a baby. What had these babies done to deserve this?! All they had done was be born! He sobbed because of the lost lives, the people affected by war, the military's hard job, the hatred the international public had for them.

“I’ll call for backup…and an Imam,” Dixie said as she walked away.

"Shit," Dixie hissed, moving to the side of the bed and gripping Alfred by the shoulder. "C'mon Sir, wake up." Nothing. She heard France stir. Oh boy, more spectators. "Sir, you have to calm down. Listen to me."

"I can help him! Please, let me help him!" Dixie watched as the tears came spilling out and he looked straight at her. She could see that he was somewhere else, not in a hotel in Italy. It was a flashback. It could be anything from the Revolution to present day. "Let me help him!" he yelled at her, flailing and kicking.

Dixie held on to him as he struggled, trying to keep him from hurting himself. She needed to talk him through it, get an idea of what she was dealing with right now. She grunted in pain as his hand connected with her chin. She tasted blood coming from her cheek where it slammed into her teeth. She spit the blood onto the floor and continued holding him down. "Who, Sir? Who do you want to help?"

"H-He's breathing. I saw it! I can help them. Please, let me help them!"

"Where is he?"

"There, can't you see him? He's right...oh God, he's right there! Right over there! With all the others. All of them...all that blood. God, they must have screamed. Who could do that to a baby?!" He was screaming and weeping now, trying to reach past her.

Dixie's eyes lit up with recognition but then darkened. That had been one of many bad days on patrol in Afghanistan. There good days were hard to come by. They were trying to check out a possible hideout, but instead they hit the mother load. There were bombs and materials everywhere in that building they entered. Most of it was from theirs or Russia's country. Everyone in the squad had seen body bombs before, but never in infants. The coroners said they were all less than a year old and didn't die peacefully. They died from blood loss and shock. It was fucking disgusting. As soon as he saw them, Alfred just snapped. He was almost catatonic for a week before being honorably discharged to recover back home. No one but Dixie and Al's bosses knew.

Alfred attempted to sit up in bed, but Dixie pressed a firm hand into his shoulder and held him in place as best she could. "Sir, you gotta calm down. Breathe." "No, I have to help him. He's so tiny!" He was weeping, unable to catch his breath. If she wasn't careful, he'd hyperventilate. "Please! Please, he's too young! Let me save him!"

"Colonel Jones!" Dixie boomed finally. He froze. She could see him starting to come out of it, but he wasn’t quite there yet. She needed to use his name. “Alfred, snap out of it!”

"God...oh God," Alfred sobbed, sitting up and sobbing into his hands. By now both Britain and France were standing nearby watching them. They had at some time turned on a light and stood close to the foot of Alfred's bed. Dixie made brief eye contact before returning her gaze to Alfred to bring him back down to earth.

"Colonel Jones, do you know where you are?"

"I...I can't remember."

"Yes you can, Alfred. Tell me where you are. Think."

"I-I'm in Afghanistan."

"Try harder."

"I-I'm in New York…no, no I'm in Italy. For the meeting. But...but the baby?" The tears started up again. "Dixie? Where's Dixie? Is she okay?"

"Sir...Sir, I'm right here. I ain't gone nowhere,” she said gently.

"D-Dix..." His voice wavered. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, and then continued to breathe in a calmer tempo.

She rubbed his back comfortingly. "That's it, Sir. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing, Sir. It'll go away soon."

Ever so slowly, Alfred pulled her trembling hand into his and squeezed it tightly before meeting her gaze. She smiled gently and removed the glasses from her eyes, perching them on his nose so he could see his surroundings better. He blinked as his eyes focused. "Dixie?"

"That's it. Welcome back, Sir.” Dixie was suddenly pulled into his chest and held tightly. She could feel the tremor in his muscles and he hid his face in her shoulder. Cautiously, so as not to trigger him again, she put a hand on the back of his head and let him hold her there. This was one of those moments when crossing the fine line drawn between them was allowed to be crossed. When his grip finally lessened, she began to pull away from his grasp. He was reluctant to let at first but soon let her go, likely noticing their audience. "Can you tell me who you are?"

"I'm America, but I like to go by Alfred. I live New York City. You're Dixie, but you used...used to be Confederacy," he involuntarily shuddered as he continued his slow, measured breathing. "You're my own private G.I. Joe," he said with a weak smile.

Dixie huffed out a laugh. "What can you tell me about those two?" She pointed at Britain and France.

Alfred blinked a moment. "That's France. That's Britain. They both kinda raised me. I...I'm really not...not on duty? Al-Qadir and...and Psalms aren't here?" He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply.

Dixie nodded. Thank God Al-Qadir wasn't here. She had no idea how that idiot got himself enlisted in infantry. It was a miracle he hadn't been killed during that tour of duty. Honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if he was KIA. He and Dixie didn't get along well. To Dixie, Al-Qadir was a naive humanitarian youngster who had no business being in a war. To Al-Qadir, Dixie was some cornpone redneck raised to love war. That was...somewhat true.

Alfred wiped his eyes and started to lay back down.

"Sir, do you need anything?" she asked calmly. After these episodes, Alfred usually went comatose for several hours. "Water, blankets?"

"Leave the light on?"

Dixie nodded.

As soon as Alfred was asleep again, Dixie sat back down at the table with a hefty sigh and pressed a shaking hand to her chin. It felt tender like it was bruising. It probably wouldn’t look worse than her fat lip though. France walked to the ice bucket and tucked a bit of it into a washcloth before handing it to Dixie. Dixie nodded her head in thanks and held it shakily to her jaw. Britain and France sat at the table with her, looking like a pair of grumpy old confused cats. She knew she was going to have to explain that little episode, but she'd swear them to secrecy by force if necessary. It wasn't a security risk, but it was embarrassing for Alfred when people saw him at his weakest.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Britain hissed quietly.

"It was a flashback."

"Of?" Dixie huffed.

"If I tell ya'll, ya'll gotta promise to keep yer big mouths shut,” she said, pointing a trembling finger at each of them.

"Of course, belle. Now, what 'append to cause such a reaction in ‘im?”

Dixie sighed, desperately wishing for a bottle of booze to get through this. "Our team was checkin' out a buildin' that was suspected to be a hideout for terrorists. You two know what I’m talkin’ about. I’m sure ya’ll had similar missions.”

“Oui, of course we ‘ave.”

“Yeah, a lot of them we did together,” Britain said cattily. “What a joy that was.”

“Angelterre, not everything ‘as to be about you. Let ‘er finish.”

“Shut up.”

“What we got was a bomb factory. We cleared the area and one of our teammates said sumthin' odd. We thought maybe he triggered a mine or found more suspects. We went back there and...Christ, it looked like a fuckin' massacre." She squeezed her eyes shut as her hand's trembling worsened with the memory. She wrung her hands, gripping them together until her knuckles were white.

“Take your time,” Britain said quietly.

"It was pretty damn gruesome. Eight babies were gutted while they were still alive an’ stuffed with enough explosives to take out a floor of a hospital. They were made ta kill people. It had a shit ton a nails meant for shrapnel. Some were left open, others were stitched up with kill switches stickin' out. A few were wrapped up in blankets, ready to be carried out onto the streets. One was…still kinda warm. Alfred just…snapped when he saw it.”

“Merde, who wouldn’t?”

“He thought he saw one move, but his eyes were trickin' him. Y'know, like when ya think a dead person's chest is movin'. The baby was already stiff, and it was still open too. He held onto that baby until we had to pry him off. The whole time he was screamin' that he could save ‘em. He was covered in blood and—by the end of the day—was catatonic."

"Fuck," Britain grumbled. "That bloody hero complex is going to kill him one day." 

Merde is French for shit.

Ifra yedaik is the Arabic transliteration for get on the ground.

Females in the US Army still aren't permitted in Infantry positions because of ground fighting

Chapter Text

Today was the first day of the World Meeting. Slowly but surely, everyone was filtering into the large council room, either socializing or reviewing their agendas for the meeting. America was usually there quite early, but he had insisted that Dixie stop to get a refill on his breakfast which consisted of coffee and a burger. They came in just before France and Britain which meant they could hear their constant bickering as Britain told France exactly where he could stick one of his baguettes if he breathed his cheese breath on him one more time.

Canada was next. She'd be sitting between him and America during the meeting. She was surprisingly good friends with Canada despite the fact that they had been enemies in the beginning with the War of 1812 and the American Civil War. The both of them often hung out with Prussia and Romano outside of these meetings when they could. She suspected it was because they all dealt with being ridiculed and ignored on a daily basis. Speaking of Prussia, the albino was next to come in, strutting about like a peacock on acid as per usual.

"Dixie, mein best buddy!" Shit. He only called her that when he wanted something or needed help with something…like burying a body. "You're coming to ze pub with ze others and my royal awesome badassness, right? It's tradition! You have to!" he cackled.

Dixie internally cringed. She was so tired; she wasn't sure she could stay awake for as long as they usually did when they went out drinking. The earliest she ever got back from these little hang-outs was one thirty, and that was only because Prussia started puking. However, it was tradition for the group to have drinks together on the first and last days of world meetings and whenever one of them was in the other's country. "I dunno, Gil. I got sniper duty tomorr-"

"Nein! It's decided! You come or ve kidnap you vile you're in ze shower! Your choice."

Dixie sighed, staying silent as she thought it over. "Where are we going?" she asked defeatedly.

"No clue. Romano said he'd pick."

"How're the nephews?"

"Ah, zey are wunderbar! Mein awesome Reuben asked yours truly to teach him the awesomeness of sword fighting. Now if I can just get West to calm his tits, ve vill be just fine."

"What about that new baby? She's your first niece, right?"

"Ja, Berlin just learned to crawl. It vill be hard to keep ze males off her, but West and I vill bring the Luftwaffe down upon zem! No one vill put their grimy paws on mein niece! Bruder has another boy on ze vay too."

"Congratulations," Dixie said with a smirk, watching him bounce from one emotion to another as he talked about his nieces and nephews. "Or should I say mazel tov?"

Prussia snickered as he turned to see the last ones coming in. The last ones in were Italy and Germany along with Germany's pregnant wife Israel. This would be their third child together, her fourth—having had one with Russia just after WWII and just before her nationhood was declared. Romano brought up the rear, shutting the doors behind him as he walked over to sit next to Spain and Italy. Once everyone seemed to be in their places, Dixie walked over to the empty seat between America and Canada. She usually took notes for America because he and the other nations ended up in a fight or some other nonsense.

Germany stepped to the podium. "Order! Order! Zis meeting vill come to order!" When the room was quiet, Germany cleared his throat. "Danke. I vould like to thank you for coming. As ve all know, ze hosting nation is supposed to open ze meeting, but since ve are in Italy, I'll be doing ze heavy lifting." Dixie snickered when she heard Romano grumbling under his breath. "Let's begin by each of us giving an update on our government's political actions since ze last meeting. Any volunteers?"

Britain was the first to raise his hand. He stood and straightened out his blazer as he cleared his throat, trying to play the role of proper gentleman. "As I'm sure you're all aware, my country is considering breaking from the EU." Several of the EU nations bristled. It was obviously a point of contention for many. "And we are attempting to send humanitarian aid to the Middle East in an attempt to keep illegal refugees to a minimum. No thanks to the Middle Eastern nations who don't seem to want to help."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Israel piped up from where she sat beside Italy. "But my country is very small and in constant danger. I can't take in strays when I barely have room for the citizens I already have now. I don't know what the others' excuses are."

None of the Islamic countries cared to weigh in. Instead, they all sat amongst themselves, whispering occasionally. Since most of them were in an alliance, they were careful with what they said as were many other alliances. "We have no comment at this time," Iraq piped up.

"My turn!" France clapped to get everyone's attention.

Dixie slouched further into the tall grass that hid her, France and a very green-gilled medic from a hornet's nest of angry Germans. They were firing on her fellow Marines as they ran towards the forest. Dixie was hidden more towards the German side, covered in grass and mud to conceal herself. France was to her left with binoculars, watching the enemy quietly. The only reason that dumbass medic was there was because HQ stuck him with her. It wasn't like she'd just fall over dead because of a little breathing difficulty and blistering skin. She was a pseudo-nation after all!

She swore when he put some kind of ointment on the still-healing burns on her cheek. "Git that shit outta my face, boy," she snapped waspishly, her accent coming out thick and…hickish. Even she cringed at it. "'Fore I cut that hand off myself."

"But sir, the burns need to be treated. They could get infected."

After the gassing at St. Quentin, Dixie had was out of commission for an—in her opinion—unnecessary hospital stay. She wasn't needed at a hospital; she was needed in the fight where those fuckers were using that mustard gas on her men. God that stuff was awful. One of her men couldn't find his mask when the stuff started oozing into the trench. They were pinned down with no way of getting out without being mowed down by bullets. So, knowing it wouldn't kill her, Dixie put her mask on him and took a deep breath. Big mistake. She started hacking and coughing as she ran through the yellow fog for several minutes before she could jump up over the side safely. As soon as she was out, the wheezing and blood oozing out of her mouth started. Then her eyes started leaking like a gushing faucet. The burning was unlike anything she'd felt before. She was blind for two days with severe burns on her arms and face. The worst was the pulmonary edema. After a week, though, she "miraculously" healed. It was one of the perks of being a nation...well, a pseudo-nation.

"Got one," France whispered. Dixie slowly picked up the M-1903 beside her. "Your five o'clock. Sniper. Look under the body."

Dixie slowly panned over to the location. The glint of a scope was hidden behind barbed wire with a body tangled in it. She could see a helmet move just under the dead man's chest. He was smart, using a body for cover like that. She'd have to use that sometime. She quietly rummaged through her pocket and sat out five bullets on the ground. Then she took a deep breath and started her mantra: "Then the Lord answered Job: 'Now prepare yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer,'" Dixie began as she carefully wiped sweat from her eyes. She pulled back the bolt and put in a bullet before sliding it home. She lifted her torso slightly, digging her painfully blistered elbows into the dirt. She took aim, took a deep breath and fired. She saw the sniper jerk and go slack. She saw another man looking around with binoculars. "'This far you may come, but no further; here your pride must stop. Have the gates a Death been revealed ta you? Do you know the way ta the dwellin' a light?'" she said under her breath as she pulled back the bolt and put in another bullet. She aimed and fired. "'Have you entered the treasury which I've reserved for the day a battle an' war? Will the one who opposes the Almighty correct Him?" She took aim again, this time going for the communications officer. "'Let him who accuses God answer.'" She pulled the trigger. It went through the communications radio and embedded in his back. He flailed and collapsed.

"You got zem all," France said quietly. "Repose."

Dixie sighed and obediently rested her arms and torso on the ground, allowing her muscles to relax.

"Sir...what was that you were saying?" the medic asked as he checked the bandages on her elbows. "It's from the Bible. Book a Job. I say it every time I use this here sniper rifle."

"What does it mean? Out here I mean?"

"It means...they ain't all-powerful like they think. We all answer ta God."

"You still believe in God? After all we've seen?" France snorted snottily. "After 'e's caused so much suffering? 'e doesn't care about us. Especially not us. Your belief in such nonsense shows 'ow far in ze backwoods of your country you were raised. Twelve o'clock."

"Say that again, Captain Bonnefoy, and I'll slit yer throat with a spoon."

France cleared his throat. "My government is working to tighten up security since some of the recent terrorist attacks."

Israel snorted. "Well it's about fucking time." France smiled though everyone could tell a fight was coming. It was palpable. Israel was always the bluntest of them all and sometimes the most vulgar, so she often got on people's bad side. "Were you saying something, l'Israël?"

"Oh don't act like you don't already fucking know, France. Your country is one of the most anti-Semitic in the EU next to Britain, and you do nothing about it just like the bitch you are. At least Britain tries to do something even though he's just another fuck up like the rest of you."

"I beg your pardon!"

"That's because there is a growing majority of Muslims that know you shouldn't exist, sister. Vive la Palestine, as they say," Palestine cooed in French. Oh boy. This wasn't going to end well.

"So they have my people beheaded and use your civilians as shields when I try to fuckin' defend my birthright?!" Israel snapped, jumping up at the challenge. "Some country you turned out to be!" she pulled a knife and started marching towards her twin. Dixie started to step in. Italy quickly pulled Israel back down, whispering about how fighting was bad for babies as he playfully patted her barely showing stomach. She rolled her eyes but didn't rebel, instead muttering under her breath and sinking lower into the seat. Crisis averted…for now.

Japan stood silently. "As you arr know, America-san has been spying on my government. We are preased to say that ends now."

"Join club," Russia interjected cheerfully. "He spy on everyone. Is nothing new. He has spied since Cold War and he won't stop just because we ask. He is probably still doing the spying, nyet?"

"Hey, bros! I got an awesome idea, like, for real! How about we talk about those protests in Japan?" Alfred said in defense of his country. She could see the vindictive spark in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. She chuckled under her breath. "Dude, Japan, your government really likes to hide all that shit you pulled in World War II, but I hear the citizens aren't takin' it. Right? Which is totally awesome of them; it's about time your people stood up to you, ya know? I'd say it's about damn time too. Who gives war criminals that raped children and buried people alive a place in a shrine anyway? Definitely not heroes like me!"

"I like dis topic," China smiled.

It seemed as though many often forgot what Alfred could be, what he could do. They all seemed to forget he could be cruel and ferocious. He was one of few superpowers in the geopolitical world and a force to be reckoned with. Only a select few people had seen it firsthand: Britain was first, Canada and the Tribes second, Mexico third, Dixie fourth...the list went on. Now his sights were set solely on Japan. They had been since he attacked Pearl Harbor. Dixie didn't know what was going through Japan's head when he attacked them in cold blood. That was a death sentence in the making. Then again, all he saw of Alfred was his goofy persona.

When they joined the war, Alfred immediately volunteered for the Pacific Theatre. He had no interest in any of the Allies. No, what he wanted was revenge which left Dixie to handle the American forces in the Western Theatre. She'd heard about how reckless Alfred was being. Any time he fought, he acted like a madman, especially when he used dive bombing. He wouldn't pull up until the last second. His fights on islands were worse. Even when soldiers were surrendering on their hands and knees, he'd toy with them before gunning them down.

She walked out onto the deck of the aircraft carrier wearing her formal Army uniform. Since most forces on the western front were either Air Force or Army, Dixie chose Army. There was no fucking way she'd fly or jump out of an airplane. Once in Sicily was enough. Alfred was in his Naval Air Force uniform, for once forgoing his bomber jacket. His was a face much like the one Dixie often wore: cold and calculating. On her it looked normal, but on him it was terrifying. But beneath even that and the fake goofy grins, there was a ferocity he hid well, but it always reared its ugly head when his country was threatened or attacked. That's why he acted like a complete idiot around the other nations. He was protecting himself and his secrets. No one ever suspected America would have dastardly secrets or the potential for unparalleled acts of evil. He was "the hero" after all. After today, they would think differently.

She stood beside his rigid form, watching them load up Fat Man into Bockscar. America was committed now that he'd already had a taste of revenge at Hiroshima. She remembered that day. They had Japan in custody, and America laughed as the Asian nation's knees buckled in pain and he cried and begged. He made him look at the mushroom cloud from the deck, watching Japan slowly break before releasing him, reminding him that unconditional surrender was his only option. This was meant to send the message home. She pulled her snuff from her pocket with shaky fingers and inhaled it to calm her jittery nerves. Alfred was making her nervous and honestly...frightened.

"We sent the pamphlets to Nagasaki, right?" Unlike Japan at Pearl Harbor, they actually sent out warnings. If Alfred had his way, those fliers would never have left the printers.

"Yeah. Doubt they'll listen though. They think Japan can actually save them from a nuclear bomb." Dixie shuddered at the cold, stoic tone and the bark of a laugh. Everything would change after this.

"I go now," Russia smiled. "I have great news."

Dixie frowned as she gave Russia a death stare. She hated that...that thing with a passion. Ever since Yalta they'd been on opposite sides of the board in more ways than one. That sneaky bastard almost killed her three times in the Cold War, Alfred many more. Everyone wanted to believe Russia had changed for the better after the Soviet Union was dissolved. Dixie hadn't believed it for a second. And now look at where they were: Russia was invading Ukraine and helping a Syrian tyrant, and everyone was too scared of him to do anything.

"We have been trying to settle matter with big sister Ukraine, and we may be getting somewhere."

Everyone noticed Ukraine wasn't present. Al was especially tense right now. He could do very little to intimidate the international community while the President continued to present their nation on its back. "Where is she, by the way? I miss those kickass tits." He asked with mock worry.

"Oh? She is not here? What a shame. I was hoping we could talk," Russia said as he looked around.

"Yeah right, you're just trying to become Mr. Big-Bad Soviet Union again aren't ya?" he snarled darkly. There went the goofy America. "How'd that whole communism thing work out for you again? Meanwhile, let's not forget that while this is happening, Ukraine can't work on the second seal over Chernobyl. Enjoy shitting radiation when you kill her and the others you sick fuck."

Everyone felt the temperature drop and the overwhelming feeling of fear grow as Russia smiled and pulled out his pipe from behind his chair. "What are you saying, comrade? Are you challenging me? Perhaps we should fight, da?"

As soon as he gripped the base like a baseball bat and started swinging, Dixie stood, shoving her chair back so quickly it toppled over. She shoved Alfred away and pulled her gun just as Russia stopped. The pipe was nearly touching her neck. God, she could smell the blood. She had her gun pointed straight at that pompous ass' face. Within seconds, the safety was off. The room went stock still. Dixie shuddered as she looked at him. "Put the pipe away, Russia," she growled, trying to seem braver than she was.

"Ah, Confederacy, it has been long time. I hear you've been trying to quell rebellion after Supreme Court decision, da?"

Dixie snorted even though she felt like tucking tail and running. "Seriously? You're gonna ridicule me when you have that pretty Pro-Hate law? Put it away or you'll be removed. Don't want me callin' daddy to tell him what a bad boy you been."

The silence was deafening. Things simmered down once Russia returned to his seat, but that aura still lingered along with that creepy ass smile. She knew he retreated only because he didn't want to appear as the aggressor. They all knew he could've destroyed her before she could pull the trigger. He was capable of many things: murder of a pseudo-nation included. It was only when she sat down that she realized she'd been holding her breath.

"I'll go next!" America boomed, likely trying to ease the mood. He stood up and took his signature hero stance. "So, that whole e-mail scandal will Hilly is still killing us, but that was totally unawesome of her. I say we just bring in a hero for the people to love, and they'll totally forget it. Also we have like, 15 republican candidates for the elections! It's like, insane dudes! Oh, and the 'Black Lives' riots are finally simmering down. With a hero like me in charge, we're cleaning up shop!"

"What about Guantanamo?" Britain asked. "Your dear old President said he'd shut it down as soon as he got into office. Last time I checked, the bloody thing was still running."

America frowned darkly for a split second before smiling again. "Dix usually handles Gitmo stuff. I'm not nearly as informed as her." That was a lie if ever there was one.

"Oui," France snorted. "She's ze one doing much of ze torturing, non? She's infamous for it."

Gilbert woke in darkness, his movement restricted by cold, rattling chains and intense pain. He grimaced and shifted as he tried to remember what happened before he blacked out. He remembered being on a train headed to Stalingrad where he'd meet his brother for a final push. There was an explosion in one of the cars further up and then the officer's car flipped. All he remembered after that was seeing…Russia. Oh fuck. He needed to get out of here. Now.

The second he started to struggle, two sets of lights flicked on. Before him stood a face he hadn't seen since the first World War. She was dressed a bit differently this time. She wasn't a Marine anymore. Now she was dressed in an Army uniform. She looked much gaunter and sicklier than when they last saw each other during post war negotiations. From what he remembered, she was fairly well educated for an American and was pretty good in combat. She definitely still looked homely with that morbidly straight face, horribly cut hair and ugly scar on her throat. Maybe if she actually tried looking like a woman, she'd be worthy of his awesome flirtation. It wasn't like she'd come on to it though. Five minutes of watching her and America was enough to tell him she was spoken for.

Prussia watched as she sat a chair behind his knees. As soon as the chains around his wrists were removed, he collapsed into the chair like a ragdoll. Totally unawesome. He groaned as the blood rushed back into his limbs, making them feel like they were being trampled by horses. She hooked his arm into restraints in the chair's legs and arms. Then she buckled his neck in with similar restraints. After that was done, she called in a medic with an IV pole and an ominous bottle and needle.

"This'll keep ya from passin' out," the woman whose name he couldn't remember said as the doctor silently cleaned the skin on top of his hand and pressed the needle in. Then he started taking pictures. That's when Gilbert realized he was only in his skivvies. He looked at the woman for an answer. She looked irritated. "Proof that ya came in good condition. We'll take pictures after we're done jus' ta show yer willin'ness to cooperate. Russia was the one who wan'ed it…fer transaction purposes." As soon as the doctor was gone, she started removing her uniform jacket. Underneath was a black, short sleeved muscle shirt. Well, at least she had a nice body. Maybe when he escaped he'd get a chance at feeling those tits. "Judgin' by yer lack a questionin', you recognize me."

"Ja."

"Well, Generaloberst Beilschmidt, my name is Brigadier General Dixie Bohannon, formerly known as the Confederate States of America. Your infirmaries call me the 'Fahl Reiter'. Catchy, huh?"

Ah, it was her. All this time, they'd been assuming it was the work of one of the Slavics like Russia or Belarus. He'd heard a few ghost stories about a person in white walking into camps and slaughtering doctors, civilians and patients. He knew what she was doing, and he hated to admit that the fear tactics worked as much as the stories of his camps did for the Jews. Though, knowing the Americans' disdain for traditional fighting tactics, he shouldn't have been surprised the culprit was American. He definitely didn't expect this American.

"You have no honor."

The woman stood in front of him. "Let's talk."

"Haven't ve been doing zat?"

"Naw. I'm just butterin' you up fer the main event."

"Gut. I vas starting to vonder if zis vas all you had."

Suddenly the woman was crouching by his right hand. She gripped it and put a finger in a device that looked similar to what he and his Templar Knights used for confessions. He wasn't too perturbed as he waited for a question. Let the torture begin. What he wasn't expecting though was for her to just immediately crush his pinkie. He screamed in both shock and pain as he felt the bone snap. It felt like every nerve was in that one finger. He bucked up against the restraints and screamed until he thought he'd start spitting blood.

"Vat ze hell?! You're supposed to ask a question dummkopf!"

"Oh am I? Well, pardon me," she said as she removed his finger roughly. "Alright, I know you—unlike that idiot Italy—know where the Axis forces are. I also know you know where the prison and labor camps are, seein' as you're one a the proprietors. So, Russia handed ya over to me 'cause we need information. And until he finishes off your brother in Stalingrad, I'm the only one with the right...qualifications."

Prussia chuckled as the pain began to wane. "Zat desperate already?"

Dixie frowned. "You're mouthier than Italy."

"No shit, frau. I'm too awesome to be zat unawesome nation."

"That so." She pulled back the black cloth on a metal table behind her to reveal several...unsavory instruments. If she used half of the things on that table, he'd end up in a lot of pain. Her face didn't look sadistic or happy either. No, she looked passive, like she was just watering a garden. That's what disturbed him most. At least Russia would smile and talk or hum. "Lieutenant, bring in the tub," she called.

A nigger in a uniform came in with a large metal tub filled with murky water. Honestly, why they let monkeys join their army was a mystery to him and all the other Axis powers. They were just making Prussia's job easier. He sat it in front of Prussia before standing at attention, facing the woman. She made a motion and he lifted the chair Prussia was in into the water. Wait, wasn't the civil war in America about slavery?

"Still using slaves? That war didn't do much." Then something about her changed. She grabbed a knife from the table and threw it past the nigger to it embedded just above Prussia's shoulder. She glared at him, and he could've sworn there was a demon in her eyes. "That war wasn't 'bout slavery, dumbass," she walked up and smacked him roughly, making him grunt. She turned to the nigger. "That'll be all. Tell Mathews to give you a day pass. Be back in time for drills. Sober."

Once he was gone, she grabbed a pair of unsheathed wires attached them to a tank motor and cranked the tank as it started purring to life. Shit. "Let's get somethin' straight. I know it's you that's responsible fer a lotta the massacres involving soldiers, and yer gonna confess to it."

"It vas vunderbar, vasn't it? All zat carnage. Death is like a balm to beings like you and me, no? Ve are much alike in zat way."

"We ain't alike at all," she growled.

Ah, he had a foothold. "You try to tell yourself zat you don't like ze killing, but you can't stop. And in zat intimate moment, ven ze person dying isn't you, it is invigorating. Sure you may feel doubt and guilt, but it doesn't stop you." Throughout all of this, he watched with glee as her hackles rose. He could see the storm inside her brewing, and he wanted her make her implode.

She punched him in the gut. Gilbert laughed as he buckled over. "Zere it is! Your desire to kill my awesomeness brings a familiar satisfaction, ja?" She punched him again, but this time she went for the healing wound on his chest. He gasped and clenched his jaw. No, no tears. Not in front of this bitch.

"Where are the Japanese hidin'?"

"Fuck you." He tried to shrink back as she came at him with a towel, shoving it in his mouth. He managed to bite her though. Then she grabbed the wires, but he had nowhere to go, and no strength to move. She cruelly pressed the wire against his chest. His back arched, and his body shook and seized, sloshing water everywhere. He shrieked into the cloth until she removed the wire, his body twitching and shaking even after the electric current was gone.

"Where?" This was repeated five more times until he finally told her where Japan was keeping everything. He was given respite and pulled from the water, blisters popping up where the wires and water had touched him. She started writing on a map and in a notebook before turning to face him.

"Where are the Italians?"

Gilbert was breathing heavily but managed to spit on her. She grimaced and wiped it away, looking put out. Good. The bitch deserved it. She walked to the table and removed the gloves, picking up a scalpel. His screams echoed throughout the warehouse. It turned into sobbing whimpers as he gave in twice more. He was so tired. When he'd finally told her everything she wanted to know, she left. He wanted her to just kill him. He'd given up all that information...just to save himself.

"Go ahead," America said nodding to her.

"President Obama has tried several times to shut down Gitmo, but his ideas are half-assed and a threat to international and home interests. For now they remain at Gitmo until he can actually do some quality work. There's talk a transferring them ta Kansas, but it hasn't been discussed thoroughly."

"And ze torture?" France asked.

"When it's necessary, I do interrogate prisoners. Let's not forget it was interrogation that took down bin Laden."

 The first memory is of WWI in the Battle of Belleau Wood. It was the first offensive attack the Americans were involved in. Despite French orders to retreat, the U.S. Marines dug in. After this, Germans called the Marines "Devil Dogs" and the French renamed the forest in honor of those Marines. This battle proved to Europe that America was a trustworthy ally.

The Bible quotation can be found in its entirety in Job 38-40. It's a moment in which God questions Job (pronounced J-oh-b) after Job questions His omnipotence.

The shrine America referred to is known as the Yasukuni Shrine (靖国神社), a shrine that commemorates 1,068 WWII war criminals. The Democratic Japanese Party has also been trying to denounce their crimes, and several have protested such acts. Contrary to popular belief, America did warn the people of Nagasaki and Hiroshima that a bomb of unparalleled destruction may hit them and told them they should leave. They flew over and released pamphlets over all potential target cities.

"Fat Man" was the name of the more efficient atomic bomb dropped on Nagasaki. The military knew two bombs in a short amount of time would likely force the Japanese to surrender.

Chapter Text

Alfred looked up from the movie he'd been watching on his laptop with a soft yawn. Man, it was a good one too. Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol was one of his new favorites by far. Ethan Hunt was such a total badass. It reminded him of his espionage days during the Cold War except he never climbed the outside of a super huge building. That would’ve been sweet! He checked the clock on his laptop and grimaced. It was two in the morning. Shit. Tomorrow was going to be a rough morning. He wondered where Dixie was. She should've been back from drinking with her friends by-oh.

A warm smile appeared on his face when he saw Dixie. She was sitting in the dark at that little table, her head and arms sprawled out on the faux wood. He noticed the large bottle of Jim Beam bourbon clutched loosely in her hand. Knowing her, it likely wasn't her first bottle. She had...quite the alcohol tolerance. Quietly, he shut his laptop and put it away before cautiously tip toeing over to her and bending down. He took her arms and put them around his neck as he cautiously lifted her and carried her to his bed. Jesus, she smelled like she took a bath in booze instead of just drinking it.

He gently lay her down before starting to dress her down for bed. He grabbed her large Marines tshirt and put it on her before blindly removing her clothes from under it, trying his hardest to not get aroused by the feeling of her soft, warm skin and the smell of gunpowder, liquor and cotton that intensified as he got closer. Of course, he failed miserably at it. He couldn't help it. She was beautiful. In sleep, she looked almost happy. There was no furrowed brow or cold, jaded mask to hide her true emotions. He gently brushed his hands over her chest as he removed her bra, feeling the swell of her breast and buildup of soft fat over her steely abdominals. With a shudder, he stared at her long, creamy white legs littered with scars as he removed her pants, revealing black boxers that partially killed his boner. Couldn't she wear something a bit more feminine? Or sexy? He shook himself of the thoughts and gently turned down the blankets to cover her up. He was going to need a moment to himself in the shower.

Alfred quietly slipped into the bathroom, careful to stay quiet and not wake up his roommates. He slipped off his boxers and turned the shower on full blast. Once he found the right temperature, he let the room fill up with warm steam. Before stepping in, he noticed one of Dixie's discarded nightshirts. He picked it up gingerly and pressed his face into it. He was instantly assaulted with the scent of gunpowder and the light scent of cotton. It invaded every crevice of his mind.

Once the room was pleasantly warm and steamy, Alfred stepped into the stream of hot water. He ran his fingers through his hair as he wetted it, before looking down at his current dilemma. He gripped the base of his cock tightly before slowly running his hand from base to tip, imagining it was Dixie's strong, calloused hands in place of his own. He groaned as he felt himself growing harder. He squeezed his eyes shut and envisioned her dry pale blonde hair, her all-consuming blue eyes and her neutral expression breaking to reveal a much more passionate expression meant just for him. He spread his legs to gain better access and tilted his head back. He pumped himself slowly, imagining Dixie's soft, supple body riding him, her deep blue eyes half-lidded and glittering with lust, her mouth swollen from kisses and agape with groans of pleasure. He dragged his nails down his chest, over his nipples, imagining it was Dixie using his chest for leverage.

He gasped breathily as he trailed his nails down his abdomen. "O-Oh, oh god, Dixie," he moaned at the mental image. If it was even possible, Alfred swore he got harder. He stroked his cock faster, picturing Dixie bouncing up and down on him with her head thrown back, moaning his name. God, he wanted to hear her moan his name. Either name would have the same result: burning need. Her pretty breasts would bounce with her with every motion, and he'd bury his face in her neck as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her against him so her breasts bounced against his chest and slammed up into her for more.

"Fuck so…God so hot. C'mon Dixie, baby, take it." He bit his lip with a whine. “You take it so well.” He bucked his hips to gain more friction as pictured Dixie's face in complete ecstasy, shouting his name and moaning while she begged for more. In his mind, Alfred obliged, squeezing his dick forcefully and bucking and pumping into his hand. The growing knot in his stomach alerted him he was close. Pre-cum dripped down his hand freely. Alfred pictured slamming Dixie's hips down a final time, imagining her clawing at Alfred's skin. He wanted her to clench around his cock as he came, making it impossible for Alfred to hold out any longer.

"Ah, shit, Dixie! Yes!" Alfred jerked his hips forward as hot seed shot out onto his stomach and the shower wall, but he pictured it shooting into Dixie. She would whimper and blush as his cum filled her. Her chest would rise and fall quickly from exertion. With a smile, Al would pull her forward to give her a kiss before rolling them over so he was spooning her, and their bodies would part with a wet pop as they cuddled. He'd wrap his arms around her, and she wouldn't pull away as he cooed sweet nothings in her ear.

"I love you," he said as he cracked open his eyes, breaking away from his fantasy as the hot water hit his overly sensitive cock. His breathing had finally slowed down and now he was alone in a shower.

Alfred shut off the water and grabbed a towel to dry himself off before putting on his boxers and stepping out of the bathroom into the chilled hotel room. He climbed onto the soft mattress as gently as he could before covering himself with the soft blankets. He sighed as he relaxed into the mattress after leaning cautiously over Dixie to sit his glasses on the bedside table. He tensed up every muscle before slowly relaxing each one. It was a method he learned during WWI that always made him fall asleep quickly. With a quiet yawn, he scooted slightly closer to Dixie and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the mattress shift just before feeling the light weight and the warmth of his bedmate cuddling against him in her sleep. For a moment, he stayed in frozen shock before raising his right arm and gently pulling her against him more fully before carefully his kissing her hair, the dry locks smelling of gunpowder and generic soap.

He couldn't help but take a few moments to watch her as she slept, his eyes traveling over her face in the darkness. It was only in these moments when he could see her for what she was: a woman preyed upon by more misfortune and distress than she should ever have had to experience. When she slept, he could break past the steel vault that shut her away. His gaze followed the flow of pale blonde hair spilled down her back. Those broad shoulders seemed haunted by ghosts he couldn't see or fathom. She didn't belong there, deserved better than trailing after him, always smoothing over his mistakes. She shouldn't have to spend hours at the range, fingers working at the trigger of a weapon. Those hands that now lay upon the sheets in sleep would soon hold a weapon meant to take and protect life.

He kissed the burn that spiderwebbed over her back and the base of her neck. She should never have had to feel the flames that seared such a mark on her. His calloused fingers traced the elaborate, raised scars and dropped a kiss to the frayed edges just below the neck of her shirt. Following the curve of her spine, he stroked her back and watched her muscles ripple. To think after what he did, she still trusted him enough to give herself so plainly…it was mind-bending. He always found her trust in him remarkable, a beautiful fragile heirloom he was terrified of touching. With a contented sigh, he wrapped his arm over her as he lay back so she was pressed to his chest. He took her outstretched hand in his and started soothingly tracing over the jagged scars on her hands and wrists. Those were from the Cold War, Alfred thought to himself as he slowly fell into a long awaited sleep.

Dixie heard her own gravelly, raspy groan, seemingly coming from far off in the distance. She tried to reach for her forehead, but she was only met with an intense, slicing pain in her wrists. She tried again and received the same painful results. What was happening to her? She attempted to open her eyes but her whole face seemed to be swollen. She tried to move her legs, but she was met with more of the biting pain that came when she moved her arms.

What happened to her? Where was she? The last thing she remembered was being in the Kremlin undercover as a personal assistant, and she remembered being sent to the library vault. She saw Russia there and...oh God. She suddenly understood why she couldn't move her hands and why her body felt so battered. She had fought Russia, nearly destroying the library. She would've escaped if she hadn't tripped on a rug. Urged on by a panic which was slowly rising to the surface of her clouded mind, Dixie managed to force her eyelids open.

A moldy beige ceiling. She looked around her and was greeted by yellowed pictures of sunflowers and sunny fields. She looked at her wrists and stared in horror. Her hands and feet were bound tightly in razor wire. It was already digging into her skin, causing a bloody mess on the cheap-looking sheets beneath her.

"Ah, you're finally awake." Russia's voice cut like a cool draft of air through the fog inside her head, causing her to flinch violently and tug on her bonds with increased force, further damaging her hands and feet. She flipped her head around to see the all too familiar figure looming in the corner. Heavy silence engulfed the sparsely lit room, only softly punctured by the inappropriately comforting sound of street traffic and rain.

"Where," her tongue felt numb and refused to finish its work.

"In a hotel." This was unsurprising considering the tacky décor. She licked her lips and tried to keep herself calm and rational which was harder than expected with that demon lingering nearby. She started trying to slip back into sleep where it was safer, but it was proving futile. "Your head must hurt."

The monster was damn right, her head felt like it was breaking in two, and their short conversation had done nothing to make her feel any better. With a sigh, she let her blood crusted head fall back onto the pillows as darkness spun in front of her closed eyes. Just as she was beginning to slip into sleep, she heard heavy booted footsteps coming closer. Stopping at the edge of the bed. Dixie decided to keep her eyes closed, hoping he'd leave her alone or just kill her quickly. She suddenly felt Russia's weight sink into the mattress beside her, felt her whole body tense up which caused the razor wire to burrow deeper into her skin. She cried out at the pain in her limbs as cold sweat started to build on her brow. She was trembling all over.

"Here." Dixie realized she must've been holding her breath for a while because she let it out in a surprised hiss at hearing Russia's voice so close to her ear. She could feel the cool breath on her temple. She turned as far away from that voice as possible, which, considering that both her arms and legs were fastened to the bed with fucking razor wire, was not far. She felt more blood begin to spill down her wrists and onto the sheets. "Take this," Russia calmly suggested again, ignoring his captive's desperate efforts to get away.

"What is it?" she muttered, in an attempt to regain her composure, peeking at those purple eyes from behind her hair.

"Is something for the pain." Instinctively, Dixie pressed her face further into the bedsheets, firmly clamping her lips together.

Russia chuckled and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with icy fingers. She could feel the metal of his wedding ring brush her cheek. His ex-wife, the new country of Israel, had been having an affair with Alfred for several months now and had just left him for helping Egypt with the War of Attrition. She took their son with her too. So why the hell was he still wearing it? "It wouldn't be making sense for me to be going through all the trouble of bringing you here to poison you right away, da? Is safe." The words "right away" did not bode well.

"Nuthin' you do...makes much sense ta me." Dixie silently congratulated herself on finally getting out a whole sentence.

"You wound me."

Despite knowing better, Dixie's turned her head to look at Russia. Her captor's face was hovering only inches away. One corner of the smug bastard's mouth slightly curled upwards in a hint of a smirk. Maybe if she moved fast enough she could head-butt him. She looked at her wrists then. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. The razors weren’t visible anymore, already burrowed deep in her skin and covered by blood. As soon as he was sure of her attention, Russia's smile turned innocent, friendly and child-like. That was even more terrifying. Apparently, she was staring with her mouth open because Russia hurriedly slipped two tablets into the back of her mouth, followed by a cup of water. Before she could spit it at him, he forcefully clamped her jaw shut and used his hand to hit her throat, causing her to swallow involuntarily with a cough. When Dixie let her head sink back into the mattress, Russia leaned away, seemingly satisfied, the deceptively child-like smile replaced by his a calm, unreadable facial expression.

"There is good girl. We don't want you in pain, da?"

With great difficulty, she managed to turn her head away from Russia, deciding to ignore his patronizing tone. She flipped him off though it cost her a large slice of skin. Russia's stare darkened. "If you care about me bein’ in pain, you could untie me," she hissed bitterly, the intense pain in her body becoming more noticeable as her headache started to fade.

As expected, Russia ignored the suggestion but got up from the bed and stepped a few strides away, causing Dixie to silently exhale in relief. "Do you think Amerika would make trade for you? He's much more valuable to my bosses."

Dixie gritted her teeth and jerked on the bindings. Blood oozed and dripped in steady rivulets down onto the sheets, but she was getting further out. The blood was lubricating her hands and feet, making the blades cut faster and deeper. She could make it out of this. "If you so much as dial a number I'll-"

"Kill me?" Russia filled in the blank, slightly raising one slender eyebrow. "Your last attempt was not impressive. You weren't strong enough to rid world of me. Just like typical American female. Now, why don't you be telling me what you found in Kremlin?"

"Fuck you, russkie asshat!"

Icy fingers brushed down the bared skin of her stomach. Dixie shuddered at the pain and repulsion as she recoiled from him. Suddenly a fist connected with her jaw and her head snapped to the side. She could hear her jaw coming out of its socket and shattering at the joint. The movement caused her shoulders to shift and her strained muscles burned in protest. Her hands were halfway free of the razor wire even though they the bright red stripes on white skin were getting longer and deeper. A fist collided with her stomach and Dixie grunted as the wind was knocked from her lungs. The hand pushed something damp into her mouth. She started choking on the cloth. It made her feel like she was drowning. Panic swelled up, making it more difficult to breathe. Dixie squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding in her chest, the blood pumping loudly in her ears. Another hard punch to the stomach made her buck. The razor wire burrowed into her skin as her hands slid closer to freedom. She was almost free. Just a bit longer. The muscles in her arms and shoulders stretched, burning and screaming. She gasped for air from the attack but was unable to because of the damp cloth. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them slip past her lashes. Another punch hit her temple and she gasped. The cloth was removed and she greedily gulped in a lungful of air.

“It isn't very nice to call names.” Dixie didn't reply. Russia grabbed her broken jaw, making her scream and sob. "What. Did you. See?" he snarled.

She wasn't going to tell him what he wanted. She wasn't about to sell out her country. She heard Russia sigh before he scraped his rusted pipe down her cheek. She couldn't help but pull away with a small shudder. “It would be making it easier if you just told me, Dixie.”

“Go back to hell, fuckwad.”

He was suddenly on top of her, straddling her waist. His icy fingers wrapped around her throat and squeezed threateningly. Russia put a hand on her bare stomach and Dixie paled. She tried to get away, only to be reminded of the painful restraints on her wrists and ankles. “I wonder if Amerika would be angry if I took something of his. After all, he took something of mine. What do you think?”

The sound of gun fire rang out. Both she and Russia looked up at the door, the noise out of place. Dixie took the distraction and screamed for help as she ripped her feet and hands out of the razor wire. Slivers of skin were still hanging from the barbs. She lunged at Russia then, hooking her arm around his neck in a chokehold. He flipped her up over his head and onto a desk, making it splinter and break as he slammed her down. She screamed and tried to suck in air, but with eyes blazing, he grabbed her by the neck, raising her up into the air and slamming her against the wall. He held her there as he glared at her.

She clawed at his hands, desperate to get free as her body screamed for air and her windpipe was crushed. His aura pressed down on her, stealing what little breath she had in her lungs. He squeezed tighter, pouring his anger out through his tightly clenched hand. Dixie snarled and grabbed onto his arm, leveraging her legs up and around his neck. He tried to lurch back but she caught his neck in her strong legs, squeezing tight. He grunted, pulling at her legs with his free hand. She started to feel lightheaded, bright dots appearing before her eyes. She tightened the stranglehold she had on him. She felt his grip slip slightly. Desperately, she gasped, drawing in air.

She heard Alfred yelling for her along with gunshots and banging. Suddenly she was released, falling to the floor in a bloody, bruised heap. She watched as he escaped out the window, gently pressing a hand to her stinging neck as she panted and wheezed for oxygen. The white spots were still there and the room seemed to get blurrier and dimmer. She wasn't getting enough oxygen. God, she was tired. She lay down on the musty smelling floor and rested her eyes. It felt like the ground was sucking out her soul.

The door hit the floor when Alfred kicked it off its hinges. "Dixie!” she felt something warm on her face, gently brushing against her sore throat. “Dixie, look at me!" he yelled holding her face in his hands.

Slowly she opened her eyes before trying to smile. Her jaw was too painful and swollen, so it ended up being an awkward grimace. “We're getting you out, just hold on. God, when I see that bastard I'll fucking kill him,” he snarled as he picked her up.

Her breath was coming in fast panting breaths, and the pain wracking her body was enough to cause tears to form in the corners of her eyes. If it was this bad with that pain medicine...she shut her eyes to stop the thoughts and tried to calm herself. She felt Alfred shift slightly so she was being cradled in his arms. A warm calloused hand carefully brushed Dixie's bloodied hair from her face.

"Oh mon Dieu!" Francis groaned when he sat up in bed in the early morning and looked towards America's bed. "I wish zose two would just get it over with and fuck or somesing!"

Dixie was facing America, her chest pressed against his and her head tucked between his neck and the pillow. He had an arm hooked over her waist and a leg hooked up over both of hers. Honestly, it was getting ridiculous. Everyone but those two seemed to realize they were desperately in love with each other. The sexual tension was palpable, and it was becoming too much for poor Francis' fragile heart to take. Every time he saw those two together he had the urge to scream or find someone to sleep with.

"What in the hell are you talking about now, France?" Britain snapped as he walked out of the bathroom.

"Zose two!" Francis said, waving his arm in their direction. "Every time zose two are in a room together, ze sexual tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife! Zey are giving me terrible ulcers!” Britain looked at the bed and rolled his eyes.

"For once, I think we're in agreement. Christ, it's sickening how cloyingly sweet they are on each other."

"Thank you!" Francis huffed. "I don't know if I can take ze stress of watching zem tip toe around each other. It will give me all sorts of problems."

Britain snorted. "And you don't need any more of those, do you?"

"Shut up, rosbif!"

"Cheesy, love sick surrender monkey!"

"Dudes!" America hissed from under the blankets, his head the only thing visible. He looked like a belligerent meerkat. "Shut the fuck up! We're trying to sleep here! Jesus.”

"Don’t give me zat! Zis is your fault, Amerique."

"Bring it up at the meeting," he grumbled, pulling Dixie closer. She groaned softly and nuzzled her face further into his bare face. "Too tired.”

Chapter Text

Today was the last day of meetings. Thank God. Dixie looked up as America stood to begin his presentation and Q&A. He was one of the very last ones to give it, and it was almost three in the afternoon. As he started walking up, Dixie followed him with two large binders and a TelePrompTer. When she had everything set out, she nodded to America and returned to her seat next to Matt. She could relax today since one of Japan’s lackeys was in control of security.

"So, dudes, back home, things are going pretty well. Of course, what do you expect with a hero like me in charge? The economy's still recovering, but that all depends on China. And everyone knows you can't trust a commie to do anything right."

"Leave me out of dis, capitalist pig dog!"

"Anyway, we're working to get the VA lawsuits and scandals out of the way, and we're making lots of changes. Immigration reform is a big topic since the South American countries can't seem to understand that no means no," he glared at the countries in question that were all bunched together. "Seriously, you're lucky none of the states are here. Since I'm a nice hero, I saved your scrawny asses. If they were here, they’d burn you alive.

"My home skillet Obama still wants that deal with you, Iran, and he's working on it. However, a huge majority of the Senate is having a hissy fit, so it's still just a plan on paper. We can't promise anything. Elections are coming up soon too, so Obama's rushing to get his stuff into action illegally, but there isn't a real big push to try him for it except on the far right of the Conservative party.

"There's been a scary big surge in terrorist recruitment over at my place, but with me watching over us, nothing will go wrong. We found traces of mustard gas use over in the Middle East, and we're still over there trying to quell insurgents with air and drone bombings. My heroic sidekicks Israel and Jordan have been a big help. “

“I’m not your sidekick,” Israel snapped. “I had enough of that during your little pissing contest with Russia.”

“Agreed,” Jordan added.

"We're having a lot of problems with drought and wildfires all along the West coast, and the Midwest and South have been getting tons of rain. It's crazy weird, bros. Australia's been helping out with the drought problem since he has more experience with this. Totes awesome. California says thanks by the way.

"Obama's still trying to get rid of guns, but that probably won't ever work. There's also been like a huge ass push to get rid of anything involving the Confederacy like the flag and stuff." All eyes suddenly looked her way. Dixie was pointedly avoiding their gazes in an attempt to not look angry. "They're saying anything like that is racist and hate mongering, but a lot of Southern states aren't taking it well. Some of them are even greeting good ole Obama with a Confederate flag or the song Dixieland. I thought it was hilarious, but...he didn't."

Dixie grinned at the memory. She never rode on Air Force One with Alfred when he was with the President. Instead, she usually just took the day off. On those days though, the states invited her to participate, and she couldn’t help but accept the invitation. The look on Obama’s face was priceless. Louisiana Purchase had several photos up on her Twitter account, and Dixie got sent copies in the mail.

"What about Ferguson?" Tibet asked shyly.

"Totally glad you asked that bro! There were crazy bad riots and raids, and the police couldn't do anything about it without getting their heads cut off. The autopsy showed the cop was telling the truth, but nobody wanted to believe that because the government and the media was all Anti-Cop. Now we're trying to fix that, but it's seriously hard work. It doesn't help when the President obviously favors civilian minorities over law enforcement and the military."

"How so?" Hungary asked.

"Well, they sent a dude to Mike Brown's funeral, but they never do that when cops get killed. Or military personnel for that matter, but Dixie and I try to go to those as often as we can. Then during that slaughter in that church in South Carolina, Obama went to the memorial service but not to the one for the military base in Tennessee when a shooter attacked all of them. Good thing is that the states are considering arming military personnel on base. Oh, and these two bitchin' chicks just got through ranger school! They're like the first ones ever! And they’re super hot!"

"Do you have anything to be adding to this, Confederacy?" Estonia asked.

"Ain't my place to say anythin' on our country's affairs without a nation’s express permission," Dixie said calmly, not even looking up as she continued writing on a notepad.

"Ohonhon, I don't think 'e would object," France sneered.

Dixie glared dangerously at him as America started talking again. Ever since this morning he'd been acting like more of a slimy pervert than usual. All of this was because she woke up wrapped up in bed with America. When she finally came to, she quickly removed herself despite Alfred's quiet whining from under the blankets. When he finally woke up, she spent a long time profusely apologizing for falling asleep and being mildly drunk on the job. He blew it off like it was nothing, but to her it was a big deal. Professionalism was the only thing keeping her from doing something stupid that would ruin their relationship.

Across the room, the door opened, a young man no older than twenty easing inside. He wore a local uniform, stopping just inside to show the nations his pass. "Sorry if I'm interrupting; mail call."

"Go ahead, man," Alfred beamed.

America continued talking while Dixie's eyes followed the young man. Five envelopes and a package were handed to Italy, three to Germany and Israel each, two to Japan, two to Russia and China, one for Dixie, eight for France, four for Britain and three for America. It was odd for her to ever receive mail. Especially if she was in a foreign country on business. Most people who knew her knew to send an e-mail or call. There was no return address or stamp. Inside was a folded piece of plain white paper, the words scrolling across it neatly typed. Frowning, she pulled it out…a letter?

My dearest Ms. Dixie Bohannon:

It is such a pleasure to finally get in contact with you after all these years of watching from afar. Believe me when I say I have been an admirer of yours for some time now, of your personal strength and strong moral compass. To not only survive the events that you have, but to flourish in the aftermath, is nothing short of commendable on your part. You are quite the strong little lady both physically and mentally. It’s quite a change from when we last met. You were like a different person, although back then you were Dinah Jones.

Pausing with eyebrows forming a deep furrow in her forehead, Dixie looked back to the front of the envelope. No one knew about the name Alfred had given her before she seceded. Who was this from? Her name on the front yielded no answers; it, too, was typed, with no handwriting for possible identification. Confused, and mildly concerned, she looked back to the letter itself.

I'm sad to say this, but I must keep this particular letter brief, my dearest. It was simply meant to notify you of my presence nearby, that I'm here and watching from the shadows and that you will certainly be hearing from me again very soon. I promise you that much. Until then, I would ask that you keep the token I've enclosed, as a reminder of our past shared. I truly hope it brings you the same joy it has brought me over the many years.

Token? Opening the envelope, Dixie peeked inside, catching a glimpse of a burnt green corn leaf. Setting the letter aside, she reached into the envelope and pulled it out before her body and mind seemed to instantly shut down. No. No, no, no, no, no. It couldn’t be him.

"Dix?" Her gaze rose abruptly to find Alfred watching her, one eyebrow cocked quizzically. Now everyone was looking at her. "Everything all right?"

Her immediate instinct was to show him the letter, but no. She had to close down, temporarily, compartmentalize this. If this was something dangerous, he and the others would be in jeopardy. This needed to be kept to herself. There was no need to trouble anyone else. "Yes, Sir, everything's fine. It's...just a letter. It caught me by surprise." She seemed to be trying to convince herself of that more than him.

For a long moment, he simply looked back at her, bright blue eyes gauging whether or not she had anything else to say or hide. In that moment, Dixie broke eye contact, shifting in her seat, seemingly calm. In her peripheral, she was aware of him still staring for another few seconds before he gave up and began speaking again. Not that he couldn't attempt to pry it out of her later, if he wanted.

Putting her boss out of her mind, Dixie returned her attention to the envelope. This was probably some cruel prank that she was overthinking. The person who signed the letter had died long ago on a battlefield. She was the one that watched the life ebb from his eyes so many long years ago. She was just tired and overthinking things.

Alfred was wandering in the field where he used to take Dinah to play. That was back before the war. When it started, Alfred was forced to leave little Dinah to fight his brothers and the Native American tribes. He begged the tribes to talk it out, but in the end...he was forced to kill his first family. God, if his mother was still there to see what he did...he didn't even want to imagine what she'd think or say. Then Arthur started a blockade on the South. After that, he lost contact with Dinah and all his states. Now he could only pray Dinah was still alive. Surely Arthur wouldn’t kill a budding little nation out of spite.

Alfred sighed tiredly and sat in the grass, staring out at the wilderness as he reflected upon the last few lonely years, he caught movement in the bushes out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to look, his eyes widening. Dinah was emerging wearing a soldier's uniform. She looked like a preteen boy except for her blonde curls barely contained under her cap. She looked...different. Her eyes were blank and haunted, like she'd experienced something awful. Her body was slouched and she had a limp.

"Dinah?" Alfred asked in disbelief, standing abruptly.

She flinched. It was then that he saw the ugly blackened burn on her cheek. He never should've left her for the war. He should’ve taken her up North with him where he could keep her safe. The cap fell from her head, revealing an ugly cut at the start of her hairline that ran back, hidden under the thick curls. He stood the rest of the way slowly. "Dinah, it's just me. It's just Al. I'm not going to hurt you, okay?" he said as he cautiously walked towards her. He was slow and wary just as when he first met her. He could see tears welling up and threatening to spill over. As soon as he could, he pulled her close, and she broke down into sobs, clutching his coat in her fingers. "It's okay. You're okay. What happened to you?"

"I...I was hiding in F-Fort Mims w-with the governess. T-They s-scalped me, brother. It hurt so bad. Then they…”

Oh, Heaven. He had gotten word from General Jackson about what happened at Fort Mims. Hundreds of men, women and children...all dead at the hands of the Creek Indians. He looked into her deep blue eyes and thought they looked so old now...older than he remembered. Dimmer than the bright, shining eyes he had left behind. He sat her down and carefully tended to the injuries he could actually help heal. He saw the scars, and the story of her vengeance and sorrow written on her body. He saw the cold, hardened soldier she had become when there was no one there to care for her.

"After that...I fought at Horseshoe Bend an’ s-stayed with M-Mr. Jackson an’ his wife. H-He's n-nice. He took me in...l-let me fight back. I-I killed...killed people," she whispered between shuddering sobs.

Alfred hugged her closer in understanding. As immortals, they didn't get to deal with death the way that everyone else did. They got to deal with the loneliness of thousands of years inside their own minds, trapped in bodies that began to feel less real with every year that passed while friends aged into dust. There would always be something missing. There would be empty places at tables where loved ones should've eaten at. It would hurt when only they would be able to remember the people who filled those empty seats with clarity. He couldn’t imagine the things she went through out there. She didn’t need to say anything more for him to understand that these last few years were filled with sleepless nights when the whole world was too big for her and too dangerous to close her eyes for even a minute. He stopped trying to imagine when he started to wonder what could have happened had one of her enemies caught her.

“Dinah, you know I’m here, right?” he asked softly. “You’re safe no matter what. I’ll protect you. I'm your hero.”

“I know.” Dinah finally turned her head, shifting and twisting uncomfortably to face him. "You...you won't leave again will you?"

"Never." Carefully, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close as she pressed her ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She was so small in his embrace. Too small to be involved in a war.

The War of 1812 was fought by the US, the UK, Canada and many American Indians. It was started when Britain started preventing trade with the French because of the Napoleonic Wars and taking British born Americans on ships to force them to join the war. Since they were tied up with France, the British and Canadians started arming the Native Americans. They also promised to help create a state for them that would be a British buffer state. With the defeat of Napoleon, the British adopted a more aggressive strategy. In September 1814, the British invaded and blockaded the North from the South.

In the South, Red Stick Creek Indians raided Fort Sims, leaving very few survivors. After this, General Andrew Jackson destroyed the military strength of the Creek nation at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. After the War, Jackson remembered the atrocities committed by the Native Americans and used it as an opportunity to force them from their homes despite the fact that many tribes actually helped the Americans in the was. They were forced to resettle in what is now Oklahoma which was part of the Louisiana Purchase.

Chapter Text

After the end of the meeting, without consciously agreeing to, the nations all ended up at one drinking spot. It was a basement turned into a rustic little pub with bad music and good booze. Poor Germany had his hands full running around reminding the others not to blow their cover or draw unwanted attention to themselves. It was bad enough that most of them had showed up in the same place without the addition of every one of them being in the process of getting drunk.

Dixie was sitting at a table with her usual group with the addition of France and Spain. Gilbert, Spain, Matt and Romano were drinking beer while France was drinking a bottle of wine. Dixie had the usual bourbon, drinking quietly as she listened to her friends bicker. She tended to be a quiet drunk, and she needed to forget that eerie letter from earlier in the afternoon.

"This," Gil slurred thickly, struggling to pick the right words as he finished off his fifth beer. "Is the most...awesome day ever," he belched. "And I'm just saying zat…because my awesomeness is in it."

"No it's not, dumbass," Romano said tiredly from where his face was plastered to the table.

"Aww, are ju sleepy, Romano? Dis remines me of when 'e was jus a liddle bebé who wet de bed," Spain ruffled Romano's hair.

"Shut up, ya rat-a bastard. I told you not to mention-a that."

"Yes it is," Prussia insisted. "C'mere." Here he tried to wrap an arm around Romano to give him a hug, but he found the angle challenging, ending up in the floor. Romano only sniffed and hiccupped before glancing down at the snickering German.

"Hey," Matt said, interrupting them loudly. "Hey, guys...I have a joke. You know the one about crossing the street to get to the other side? Well..." He frowned and seemed briefly confused. "Shit, I just forgot it."

Romano thought this was funny and started giggling along with Spain. France had long since gone to flirt with a barmaid. Dixie doubted France could even get drunk anymore. His liver was probably pickled by now. Dixie began to feel a pleasant warmth in the pit of her stomach, a feeling she knew very well from being an alcoholic. As she enjoyed this feeling, she felt something tugging on her shirt sleeve. It was Matt. He was...grabbing it with his teeth. "Hell're ya doin'?" Dixie asked with a chuckle.

"The meaning of life," he said deeply, blowing his booze-breath into her face. "Is...weed. That shit...that shit will cause world peace, Dixie-Doo. I'm cereal! I mean serious!"

Most of the regulars had been driven out by this point, but the bar owner wasn't complaining. They paid and paid well, so it wasn't like he was losing business. Then Dixie heard a familiar yell. God, who let Britain near the beer? She looked around, trying to keep the room from spinning. There. He was at the bar sitting between America and...and Russia? That was a weird seating arrangement.

"First I'm a bloody Catholic, then I'm Protestant! What am I know?! I don't bloody well know!"

"Britain, I think is time for you to go to bed, da? You're giving me headache." That was a creepy grin.

"You don't know me, shithead tosser! I'm a bloody Empire and I say when I stop home and go drinking! So fuck all of you!"

"Dude, calm down."

"And you! I risk my arse saving you from that tit faced France, and you go and start a fucking Revolution against me! You know how far you sent me into debt, you twat?!"

"Dude, seriously, breathe."

"And why the hell don't you just fuck Confederacy already?! We all know you want to do it to each other, and it's...it's not like she's a bad lay, I mean, sure she's-"

"Dude! What the hell?! Not cool, bro!" Alfred snapped as he started looking around.

"It's true!"

"Angleterre is right, Amerique. All that sexual frustration is getting tedious, non? 'ow about a drinking contest? If I win, you make sweet amour to your petite amie?"

"And if I win?" America asked.

"Your choice."

"You're on, bro."

"I 'ope she brought lubricant. I 'ear you're quite well endowed."

"Dude, perv alert."

Sometimes it was amazing how irresponsible Alfred could be. It was a miracle he'd won the Civil War back when he was a diehard alcoholic. Thankfully though, because he was behind France on alcohol intake, he just barely managed to win the contest. Now France had to spend a night in the same bed as Russia. Neither one seemed too happy about that little arrangement. They got to thirty-eight before France finally passed out, hitting the bar and the stool as he slid into a heap on the floor. By then, Dixie had returned to the hotel to get a few decent hours of shut eye before the mandatory G10 "bonding" activity tomorrow. She only knew the results because Britain had somehow managed to get back to the room. Then she got the call.

"Bohannon."

"Heeeeey, Dix!" Al practically yelled into the phone. "Where are you? You vanished…like one of Britain's pretend friends." He laughed obnoxiously.

"Sleepin'."

"Oh, shit, sorry. Can you...come get me? I'm on some street somewhere, and I lost a shoe," he whispered.

Dixie surged upright despite the headache that seemed to grow the more awake she became. She could just imagine him stumbling around before getting shot or kidnapped or worse. "I'll be right there. Don't move."

Dixie pulled up his GPS tracker in his phone and made her way to the door, throwing a light jacket over her pajamas, which consisted of a black t-shirt and shorts, and putting on a pair of shoes. It only took ten minutes to find him sitting on a park bench, one shoe and sock missing from his feet. He didn't look injured thankfully, and he didn't seem to have anyone following him either. Dixie told the driver to stop and jumped out. As she neared him, his face lit up with recognition. "Dix! I didn't expect to see you here! You wanna have a drink with me?" he practically shouted as he stumbled towards her. "No, I'm here ta take ya back to the hotel, Sir. You called me earlier 'cause ya need to get there." She took his arm, putting it around her shoulder as she helped him get into the black SUV.

"So you dun wanna have a drink with me? I'm hurt." He pouted, sticking his bottom lip out like a child while she buckled him in.

"You've had plenty ta drink, Sir." As she went to shut the door, he grabbed her jacket to tug her forward, bringing her face to face with him. "Then you hafta promise to drink with me on a different day." His expression, attempting to be suave, came across as that of a pleading puppy.

"Yes. Fine. Now lemme go so I can get us ta the hotel." Once he was satisfied, he released her.

She walked briskly to the other side of the vehicle, sliding into the seat next to him as the car started moving at a much more leisurely pace than before. Dixie was tired, and the car was relaxing her into a light sleep until something started burrowing into her neck. She looked down, startled, to see a mass of golden blonde hair snuggling into the crook of her neck like some tribble/vampire hybrid. "Sir, what the hell're you doin'?" she asked, blushing at the closeness.

"You're warm and I wanna be warm too," he reasoned, pressing his cheek to into her collarbone.

"W-Well, we're almost to the hotel, so don't go gettin' too comfortable."

"Are you kidnapping me?" he suddenly asked with a smile.

"No, Sir."

Before she could say more, he was pressed flush against her side. "Maybe I'm kidnapping you." His hot breath on her neck was giving her goosebumps and making her chest very visible through the thin tshirt. Then there were blazing hot, tanned fingers running up her bared pale thigh. "Dix, are you wearing anything under this?" he asked, moving his hand upwards, pushing against the fabric of her shorts.

"That ain't none a yer business, Sir." She could feel a dark blush painting her cheeks with flaming red, and she was thankful it was too dark for him to see.

"Lingerie?" he asked with an eerily France-like smirk, drawing patterns into the flesh of her thigh.

"No, sorry ta disappoint," she answered trying to separate his hand from her leg.

"You could never disappoint me, you look beautiful in anything. I bet you look even better in nothing," he said nuzzling closer to put his mouth against her ear. "God, you turn me on. I'm so horny."

Dixie tried to ignore him, hoping the silence would be a deterrent. Maybe the quiet would just put him to sleep and get him out of this situation that was making her really wish there was no red tape separating them. Thankfully, she felt him detach his hand from her thigh, making her let out a small sigh of relief. But as soon as she did, she felt him shift in his seat to face her, his hand moving into her jacket to resting just under her breast. If she wasn't cherry red before, she sure as hell was now.

"You smell good! You never let me be this close to you without threatening to shoot me," he purred.

"I'm still fully capable a shootin' you."

He put his mouth on her ear again. "I don't feel a gun."

She shuddered and squeezed her legs together for just a bit of friction. Just enough to take the ache away from between her thighs. Fuck, how long had it been? She'd been celibate since the end of the Civil War. She wanted it so fucking bad. Especially with him. He teased the hem of her shirt upward so he could press his hand to her stomach, rubbing small circles into the skin. He was so close that she could smell his scent under the bitter smell of tequila. It smelled like wheat and leather. She could feel his face against her neck and she could feel the small, gentle kisses leading up to and across her jawline. He travelled back down the hollow of her neck and gently nipped at the skin. She could feel him sucking and licking skin between those soft lips. Dixie couldn't take this anymore. She unbuckled herself and turned to face him. Before she could kiss him though, he was pushing her into her back in the seat and prying her legs apart to get between them. That's when she heard the knock on the window. Shit.

Dixie immediately shoved him off and fixed her clothing, panting like a bitch in heat. This was embarrassing as hell. She adjusted everything and rolled down the window, trying to look composed. "We're here, ma'am."

"Thank you," she rolled up the window and turned to America. "Come on, Sir. Let's get you upstairs and inta bed."

"Does that mean we're going to be sleeping together?" he asked suggestively.

Dixie sighed and got them both into the hotel and then the elevator, trying to keep a low profile and remain unnoticed. That was hard though since it was two in the morning. As soon as they were in the hotel room, Dixie let out a huge sigh of relief. She removed her jacket and shoes before turning around. She had to cover her mouth to contain her laughter at the sight.

Instead of unbuttoning his shirt, he was trying to pull it over his head, leaving him struggling with the fabric while trapping his arms up in a vice. He was a bit more successful with his pants; he got them around his ankles but his shoes were trapping them there. Before she could do anything, he was falling backwards onto the bed, making Dixie giggle. "Here let me help ya before ya hurt yerself." He stopped struggling long enough for her to pull his shirt back down and begin unbuttoning it. She could feel his bright blue eyes staring intently at her while she worked, but she chose to ignore it, knowing what would happen if she looked up. She'd end up giving him whatever he asked.

Once all the buttons were undone, she helped him slide his arms out. It was odd how quiet he was being now. It wasn't until she felt his breath on her chest that she realized why. Since he was sitting and she was leaning over him, she was giving him a total view down her shirt. She looked at him to see a bright red blush and a prominent tent in his boxers. Dixie quickly moved away and got on her knees to untie his shoe laces.

When she felt his hands running through her hair, she looked up. "Fuck, you look so hot on your knees, baby." Dixie rolled her eyes and roughly jerked his shoe from his foot before removing his pants and shoving him further back on the bed. Once his head was on the pillow, Dixie left, returning with aspirin and a bottle of water. Without prompting, he took it and watched as she tucked him in under the blankets.

"If ya need anything, lemme know."

Before she could move, he grabbed her wrist. "Wait."

"Sir?"

"I need you to sleep in bed with me. Just sleep. I promise." Before she could protest, he pulled her in under the blankets, tucking her against his chest and burying his face in her hair. "G'night," he said before falling asleep.

Dixie lay there for a moment inhaling his scent and enjoying his strong arms wrapped around her. For now...she supposed she could enjoy this.

Chapter Text

Dixie hated malls and anything that involved shopping. These places were always crowded and made her nervous. The clerks couldn't mind their own business and the size guessing game was too much of a hassle to put any real time into it. She only went shopping for clothes twice a year and only out of necessity. Alfred on the other hand actually enjoyed shopping, socializing and checking out the latest trends. He also liked looking at and flirting with girls while eating in the food court. Right now, she was following him around some store aimed at teenagers. They were there because the G10 were going to the beach for the mandatory G10 bonding activity. The only problem was that most of the nations didn't bring swimwear, so they were looking around Italy for something that would work.

Today though, Alfred looked like he could care less about socializing or girls. He was still pretty hung over despite taking her quick cure of burnt toast, aspirin and cold water that morning. He was yawning from behind his aviators, looking at swim trunks and scratching his chin absentmindedly. Dixie let her gaze trail along each store until it rested on an indie trading store. Some of the art and apparel piqued her interest which was rare, so she offhandedly told Alfred to grab something for her and walked across the way. He told her to buy him a bear claw and some coffee before she came back.

As she entered, the sweet smell of incense hit her nose as oud and zurna music played softly in the background. She was surrounded by different things from every culture. There were dresses and robes from African countries, art from all over the world, hookahs, relics from all religions and much more. There was even authentic full body samurai armor and katanas. There were hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, rows of incense scents and burners and rugs from Mexico and South America. As Dixie continued looking, she started recognizing things from America, most of it Native American. Her interest was piqued immediately, not for her sake but for Alfred's. He loved his native people and anything that had to do with their culture, but all Dixie remembered about the Indians was horror and bloodshed and death. Then she saw something that caught her eye in a black velvet case behind glass.

It was a necklace made of black fibrous cord with two black glass beads and a gorgeous pendant in between them. It was a white bear carved from some sort of antler or bone. The Bear was considered to be one of the most powerful and sacred of all animals to many tribes. It symbolized strength and power and was considered to bring the gift of renewal. This one was a storyteller pendant. Throughout Native American history, the story of life was passed through storytelling. This one depicted several tiny scenes of the everyday life in an Indian village. Alfred would love this.

"You have quite the eye," a clerk said in Italian. "It's authentic and comes from a little town in America called Miami."

"Florida?" she asked quizzically.

"No, Oklahoma."

"Oh, it's not pronounced 'my am ee'. It's pronounced 'my am uh'."

"Oh, are you American?"

"Yes," she said, not taking her eyes off the pendant. "How much?"

"For you? 268.58€."

"Make it 200, and you have a deal."

Alfred and Dixie smiled as they approached the other nations at the beach. Japan was sitting with Italy building a sand castle while Germany watched with Israel tucked against his side as she read a book with Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses on. Romano, Gilbert, and France were playing cards on a blanket next to a fire pit. Britain and Russia were both sitting under different umbrellas. Britain was on his phone while Russia was watching everyone else and drinking vodka. China was fanning himself under Britain's umbrella, and Canada was digging through a beach bag as he set up beside France’s umbrella. Israel and Germany's kids, Reuben and little Berlin, were splashing in the shallows. Stalingrad, Israel and Russia's young adult son, was sitting with his father.

"Hey, dudes! Wassup!" America called cheerily. After a cup of coffee and a long nap on the way there, he was back to his usual self.

"Oh great," Britain groaned loudly as he looked up from his phone. "You're the last ones I suppose. Just sit your things down somewhere."

"Dixie, vat's vit ze gettup? Zis isn't a funeral! It's an awesome day at ze beach vit yours truly!" Gilbert yelled.

"'e's right, chérie. You'll die of 'eat stroke in zat."

"Come on, Dix. Get changed so we can have some serious fuuuun!" Alfred took off his shirt, leaving him in his new shark-covered swim trunks.

Dixie rolled her eyes and grabbed the store bag from out of America's beach tote. She spotted a changing station a little ways back. Without looking at the contents, she retreated to get changed. However, when she pulled out the swimsuit, she turned bright red. There was no way in Heaven or Hell she was wearing this! How was this even considered apparel? It was more like a dishcloth. She didn't have anything else though, and it was really hot out. Plus Alfred expected her to actually participate in whatever they were going to be doing. Shit. With an angry huff, Dixie got changed and quickly wrapped herself up in a beach towel so all that was showing was her ankles and her head.

As she walked back, the complaints started pouring in from the other nations. Prussia was, of course, that first one to start complaining. "Come on, frau! Stop being such a prude! Show some skin! All of us are doing it!"

"Oui, zere is nothing to be ashamed of," France said lecherously. “I want to see what you’re wearing under zere.”

"Fuck ya'll."

"Oh, come on Dix. It can't be that bad.”

“No.”

“Just take it off," Alfred said as he jerked her towel away with his superhuman strength.

Dixie was spun around from the force, and when she stopped she was met with several sets of very wide eyes except for China who looked disinterested, Russia who maintained his usual child-like creepiness, Italy who just looked at her innocently and France who stared like the pervert they all knew he was. The bikini was red with black lace lining. The top was a thin halter top that made her chest look bigger than the Ds they were supposed to be. The bottoms were a pair of low-sitting boy shorts that just barely covered her upper thighs. She could feel her face turning even brighter red, and she huffed before glaring at them and trying to shrug it off. “The hell’re ya’ll lookin’ at? My face is up here.”

"Ohonhonhon, I like it, belle. I never thought you would pick something so...sexy. I expected some drab board shorts and a frumpy tshirt. Zis is a pleasant surprise. Tu es très magnifique."

"Damn, frau! Who knew you vere actually hot?!"

"Shut up, bastard," Romano snapped, smacking the albino harshly. "Use some damn manners instead of talking with-a your dick."

"America picked it out,” she deadpanned.

Everybody seemed surprised at that. "I thought I raised you better than that, Alfred," Britain said. "It seems France rubbed off on you in a bad way. You should learn to respect women like a gentleman."

"Don't listen to them," Israel said with a smirk. "You look bitchin', Confederacy. I know I’d wear it." Germany seemed to like that idea judging by the growing blush on his cheeks.

"So pretty! Can I touch?"

"No!" Both America and Dixie snapped at Italy.

"Quit staring at her," Alfred snapped testily. "It's just Dixie. Not that special," he grumbled under his breath.

Dixie frowned. That...actually hurt. A lot. Did he honestly think so little of her? She recalled the way he acted last night. She was an idiot to actually believe he liked her. It was just Alfred being drunk. If she'd been replaced with the girl he'd been flirting with earlier in the night, the outcome would likely have been the same, except he would’ve gotten what he wanted with the girl. She remembered the pendant she’d bought him that was sitting in the SUV. She was so naïve. She pushed the thought away for now. She'd push herself into depression later. For now, she'd wear the mask.

"Ohonhon, I disagree, mon ami. She's as delectable as she was when she came for those little visits. She was so pretty and flexible. So many positions. In fact..." Dixie was scooped up by France and thrown over his bony shoulder. She grimaced as it jabbed into the fat of her stomach. She needed to work out more. As he carried her, America started yelling and chasing after them. "Don't listen to 'im, chérie. 'e just doesn't know 'ow to say what 'e feels,” he whispered as he ran his hand over her ass.

Before she could ask what the hell he was talking about and tell him to remove his hand, she was unceremoniously dropped into the chilled water. She fought to keep from inhaling as saltwater rocketed up her nose. She came up coughing lightly, pushing her hair out of her face. France was laughing, and Dixie smiled. Alright, two could play at this game. She tackled him, forcing them both under the water as both fought to reach the surface first.

"Water fight!" Gilbert yelled, giving up his cards to join the fight.

By the end of it, everyone was at least chest deep in water and drenched. Dixie was floating leisurely on her back as the waves rocked her while Britain was holding France under the water laughing maniacally. Alfred was battling with Italy while the latter used Germany as a human shield. Canada and Prussia were playing chicken against Romano and Japan. The only ones not wet were Russia, Israel and China. Everyone was either smiling or laughing though, including the ones back on dry ground. Suddenly Alfred jumped up and called for everyone's attention.

"Dudes, listen up! The hero just got an awesome idea!"

"It's 'just had' you illiterate git," Britain snapped as he finally let France up for air.

"Whatever." He brushed the comment aside. "We should so totally have a water fight! I brought water guns for everyone because I plan things. Like Batman! If you get hit in the chest or head, you're out. Other than that, anything goes. We're gonna play in teams of three, because it's like, way more fun that way. The team with at least one person left after everyone else is out wins," he said as everyone started getting out of the water.

"What do we win?" Russia asked, his interest piqued.

"Bragging rights?" China suggested.

"Dude, that's lame a fuck."

"How about five dollars from everyone?" Israel suggested from where she was lounging with Berlin now drinking a Capri-Sun in Germany’s spot. "That way I can buy more baby supplies when my cheapskate husband wins."

"Not buying an eight hundred sixty-nine euro baby mobile is not being cheap!" he snapped defensively, his cheeks tinging pink.

"Alright, let's pick our teams. I pick Dix and my bro as my super sidekicks," Alfred announced, grabbing each one by an arm, handing each of them weapons. Dixie got something vaguely resembling a rifle while Matt and Alfred got a set of pistols. Romano went next, picking Gilbert and China for his team. Russia chose France and Britain for some strange reason. The Axis powers of old formed a team. If they followed old patterns, they'd be the first to fall with Russia's team being a close second. Romano's team would be the one to beat, but they'd be slowed down by China.

Alfred then ran for it, dragging Dixie and Matt behind him. Somehow they ended up ducking behind a sand dune. Though they had several visible shots, none of them fired. The North American team knew the European and Asian nations would thin each other's numbers out first, and staying quiet would keep their location a secret. Everything was quiet for a while until a shrill scream rang out, followed by a long string of swearing in German and the sound of running and cackling. More swearing and yelling followed but in many more tongues.

"Alright, dudes, here's the plan," America said quietly as he started drawing the game plan into the sand. "I'm gonna run left while Dix stays back as a sniper. Mattie, you run to my far left and hook around. When we find a nest, we surround it and choke them out."

“Wait a minute,” Matt hissed. “That leaves me and Dixie vulnerable from the right flank. You’re the only one fully protected.”

“Well yeah, I’m the hero bro. Gotta keep my ass covered so we can win!”

Dixie and Matt rolled their eyes. Typical competitive Alfred. Since it was Alfred, it also meant they had no choice but to cooperate. Dixie crawled up until she could see over the ledge and nodded. Alfred darted out with Matt following seconds later. England popped up mere feet away as did France just beside him. Where was Russia? What was he planning? Dixie fired, shooting England's chest. He looked up in her direction, startled. America jumped and slid behind France, hitting him in between the shoulder blades. Matt then motioned them over, having found a new hiding place. Dixie caught up to Alfred and covered him as they ducked behind a set of rickety wood steps.

"Good work, dudes."

"Where's Russia?" Dixie reminded. “He was with France and Britain. Something’s not right.”

"What are you meaning, Confederacy?" A shadow was suddenly looming over them.

"Shit! Psycho commie on our six! Run for it!" They split, trying to dodge the water as Russia leisurely fired and followed with a creepy giggle.

Canada was hit in the foot, and Dixie and Alfred just barely managed to escape, but now they were split up with a creepy ass Russian on their tails. Dixie dug in for the long haul, hoping to remain unnoticed for the rest of the game. "Aha, I found you, capitalist pig! You forgot about me! Your mist-ah!" Instantly, Dixie fired at the sound. A few moments later, China emerged from a patch of tall grass, looking thoroughly put out.

“What was that about capitalism, China? Care ta repeat?” Dixie asked with a chuckle.

"Dis is stupid game anyway." He pouted as Dixie snuck away. Dixie used a scissor tail call as she quietly crouched behind an abandoned beach chair. She knew Alfred would recognize the bird call and would respond, but she got nothing.

"SNEAK ATTACK!" When she heard Gilbert's voice, Dixie immediately shot to full attention. She did hit him on the knee just before his stream of water hit her forehead, but unfortunately, she used up the last of her water in the process. She needed to reach the water without getting hit. With Russia out there, it was a shot in the dark. Oh well.

Just as she ran for it, she heard Russia. "Ah, there she is!"

Dixie swore and pumped her legs as fast as she could, but that would hardly be good enough to escape the massive nation. She was only five feet tall, and he was massive in comparison. Dixie started pumping the gun as she neared the water, running and trying to keep the nozzle in the turbulent waves.

"Sneak attack!" Alfred shrieked as he jumped out of the water, spraying...her. In the face. Both Dixie and Russia stood there in shock.

"Are you shittin' me? I'm on your team, Sir!"

"Shit!" Without speaking, Russia lifted the gun and sprayed Alfred between the eyes: Dixie couldn't help but laugh with Russia on this one at Alfred’s nonplussed look. Everyone was laughing at him. They all returned to where the losers were back to playing amongst themselves. It seemed that Russia was the ultimate winner.

"Cheating commie," Alfred muttered as he sat on their shared beach blanket.

An oud is a pear-shaped stringed instrument commonly used in Arabic, Greek, Turkish, Persian, Jewish, Byzantine, Azerbaijanian, Armenian, North African, Somali and Middle Eastern music. A zurna is a conical oboe used to play Anatolian, Middle Eastern and Central Asian folk music.

Chapter Text

"Damn," Alfred muttered under his breath, lip twisting. How could he have forgotten about this brunch? Stopping outside the window of the restaurant, he reached up to run a frustrated hand through his hair, trying to make it look like he hadn’t just jumped out of bed which he had. "Well, this is embarrassing. Just one more thing for Artie to whine about I guess."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I shoulda remembered." Dixie's expression was a near mirror of his; disapproval not at him, but at herself. She always was the type to blame herself for anything she considered a wrongdoing. He could just see the self-chastisement in her eyes. Like watching a clock. "I've been gettin' our travel plans ready, an’ it completely skipped ma mind. This is inexcusable, Sir. I'm real sorry."

"Relax, Dix, you're not the only one who forgot. Besides, you remember everything about my day, messing up one thing doesn't mean the end of the world," he said, eyeing the sign swinging overhead. This was some weird Italian bistro Francis picked. "Let's just focus on this for now, and we'll deal with the other stuff when we get a chance."

As they walked in, Alfred was hit with the delicious smells of freshly cooked food. He was so busy worrying about being late that he forgot how freaking hungry he was. He felt like he could eat thirty horses. He spotted his pseudo-family in a booth towards the back near the kitchen. They were all dressed fairly casually, but not quite as casual as him. Art was wearing some tweed suit and Francis was wearing a blue suit with a pink shirt and black tie. Matt was wearing black slacks and a button up red and white striped shirt. Hell, even Dixie was dressed up more than him. She wore black slacks, a black blouse and a red trench coat. Alfred was wearing a pair of Levis and a white wife beater under a Batman zip up hoodie.

"Took the two of you long enough," Arthur scolded as Al slid into the booth next to his former caretaker, leaving room for Dixie at the end. "Don't tell me: your bodyguard couldn't decide on an outfit, right?"

"Nope," Dixie countered smoothly. "We got lost on the way, an’ I didn't wanna ask for directions."

Alfred snorted at the dry humor as he picked up a menu. Hmm...prosciutto sounded pretty good. Brunch lasagna sounded better. He bet alfredo sauce would taste awesome on a burger, he thought to himself as he quietly scanned the menu for something that really caught his eye. He'd have to try making it when he got back home. New Jersey had some awesome alfredo recipes he could ask to borrow. Jeez, he was starving. Could he just buy one of everything?

"What would you like?" a pretty young girl asked in Italian. Alfred couldn't help but look her over; he was a man after all. She was slim and very pretty, but she lacked many things.

Her rack was small, unlike Dixie's, but her hair was a soft shade of brown like her eyes. Her legs were deliciously long based on what he could see from under the skirt. She was thin, but he preferred ladies with a bit of meat on their bones. It made him feel like a pedophile if they were too scrawny. He could totally do Angie Jolie sizes, but Tori Spelling post-divorce size was just too skinny. Then again, didn’t eyeing any human sexually make him a pedo anyway? Never mind. Dixie was the epitome of a woman, in Alfred's opinion. She was a bitchin' mix of soft, plush fat and hard muscle despite her tiny stature of a measly five feet. Immediately, he shook the thought to focus on the menu. He couldn't stop comparing women to Dixie, and if he kept going, he’d end up with a hard on. He hated eating with those. He preferred to enjoy a meal without distractions.

"And you, ma'am?" the waitress asked in Italian.

"Water, a cup of black coffee and the brunch lasagna," Dixie said, nodding politely.

He looked up from his menu to watch her. A shaft of light fell through the window, illuminating her platinum blonde hair like a flame. And for the millionth time, Alfred noticed how impossibly lovely she was, and it wouldn't be the last. He often thought it unfair that she had such an unapproachable mask of a face and guarded eyes. He smiled charmingly at the young, bright eyed waitress. Something about those eyes suggested innocence, ignorance and frailty. They were nothing at all like Dixie's: the eyes of a soldier and more keenly aware. Exquisite dolls like this pretty little Italian girl should never have to think of becoming something like Dixie, so strong and horribly aware of the world. But Alfred wouldn’t have preferred Dixie any other way.

For someone who knew so much about him, Alfred was often astounded and grateful that she rarely noticed him staring at her. She moved beautifully with sparse gestures even when seated except for the near constant shaking of her hands. Her speech was elegant with precise, drawn out consonants and vowels mixed into that sultry Georgian southern accent. It was often hard to pay attention to anything she was saying. He'd much rather be focusing on her pale lips, the curve of the apples of her cheeks when she gifted him with a rare smile or the column of her scarred throat. He often didn't pay attention because of that, and then he got the pleasure of seeing her get flustered and frustrated. She was so fucking hot when she was angry. He loved her, and he didn't understand it.

"I'll have coffee, a colorful frittata, the prosciutto and a cheese and spinach casserole with beef and pork topping," Alfred said, smiling brightly and winking at her.

He turned his attention back to the rest of them once the waitress walked away. Matt was on his phone, probably checking in on his Provinces and Kumajiro, and Arthur was struggling to get rid of a wine cooler hangover from last night at the beach, complaining that the Earth was moving too fast. He really needed to quit drinking. Francis was just staring at him with that irritating, knowing smirk of his like he knew the solution to world hunger and just watched everyone else scramble for answers. The reality was way worse though. Francis knew how he felt about Dixie, and he just loved to make off-handed comments about it. What a douche. No wonder so many of his people didn’t like the French. Dixie was on her phone as well, but she was reading over some kind of report.

"You should really branch out more, Alfred," Francis started. When it was just them, they used their human names, especially in public. "Brunch is a wonderful time for wine tasting. Not coffee."

"Dude, I've had enough alcohol to last me a year on this trip. 'Sides, I'm trying to lay off the calories."

"Ah, but you can never 'ave too much of it, non?"

"At least he's not getting that carbonated swill," Arthur mumbled.

"Hey, man, coke is awesome! I’ve seen you drink it several times.”

"So, Alfred, seeing any lucky young femmes lately?" Everyone at the table looked up, including Mattie and Dixie. Why was his love life suddenly so interesting? He definitely didn't want them to know the truth. He hadn't been seeing anyone since his fling with Vietnam . Sure, he had some one-night stands here and there with random humans, but that was it. Except for that time he snuck Marilyn Monroe into the White House. He thought JFK was going to kill him. "Oh, y'know," Alfred chuckled nervously. "Here and there. I've been on a few dates." Lies. "Only got sorta serious with one a few months back. Cellist for the New York philharmonic." All lies.

"Ohonhon, I taught you well. I'm just glad Angleterre's prudish ways 'aven't rubbed off on you."

"I heard that, you cheese-brained monkey."

"What about you, Mattheiu?"

"Uh, I'm kind of interested in this one girl, but she's...out of my league. You know how it goes."

"Nonsense, just use zat Bonnefoy charm to sweep 'er off 'er feet. No woman is immune to charm."

"Except maybe Belarus and Dixie," Mattie grinned.

Dixie smirked as the waitress came with their drinks. “I hope it ain’t her you’re after.”

“Hell no. I’d like to keep my dick attached to my body.”

"Don't even ask me," Arthur snapped waspishly, immediately beginning to sip on his tea.

"Why would I waste my breath? You're too busy trying to curse me back into ze Dark Ages to actually 'ave a sex life."

"Don't forget his imaginary pixie bros!" Al chimed in. “I bet their blow jobs are the best!” he snorted.

"I told you they're real! And how dare you! I’d never do that to the poor dears.”

"Dude, even I know pixies aren't real. You're, like, pathologically insane."

"Am not! And what about you, Francey pants?" Arthur asked maliciously. "What poor creature has the misfortune of being in your sights?"

"Oh, Angleterre, you know I only 'ave eyes for you."

"Cut it out, tosser!"

"He's still prowling all over Seychelles," Mattie supplied, looking back down at his phone.

"Matthieu! I am 'urt zat you would betray me so quickly! I thought our bond would be stronger after all zese years."

"Well, unlike you, I actually gave a lad a sense of propriety."

"He’s been trying to get with Belgium," Mattie added.

"Ohonhonhon, I knew it! I knew you’ve been spending too much time at ‘er ‘ouse for it to be nothing!”

America tuned them out when the food was sat in front of them. It looked pretty good. Everyone but Francis and Arthur started eating while the two oldest nations bickered like cats and dogs. Nothing unusual. The food was pretty good, but America noticed it needed a bit of salt...and maybe some cumin would be nice. That's right, he knew perfectly well how to cook, and he was better than that limey ever dreamed of being. He had a whole TV network dedicated to the art!

"Et tu, belle? Any torrid romances with 'andsome Southern gents? Perhaps a nation we don’t know about?"

"No."

"Oh, come now, chérie. 'ow long 'as it been since you actually lived a little?"

"I hate to say it," Arthur interjected. "But the frog has a point. Even we nations haven’t overcome the need to form relationships with others."

"It's been a bit more than 150 years. Nothin' big."

"Mon Dieu! No wonder you are so pent up and tense! Sex is what you need. Sex makes everything better."

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dixie hissed, looking around. “Will you shut up? It ain’t that unusual. Japan went almost three centuries.”

“Oui, but you ‘ate ‘im, and ‘e is quite old.”

“You’re old,” Dixie snapped.

“Am not!”

Everyone seemed quite surprised at Dixie's celibacy except Mattie, but they probably talked about that stuff when it was just the two of them hanging out together. Wait...that meant her last relationships were with Francis and Arthur back during the Civil War. Alfred couldn't help but perk up. That meant she was loyal to just him, and she was just his all this time! Damn, it sounded selfish when he actually thought about it like that. Hey, that meant that she only had two people to use as comparison to him if he ever got the nerve to ask her out. He pretended to quit listening to the conversation to focus on his food.

"What about Alfred zen? Fancy courting our annoying, self-absorbed nation 'ere?"

"Dude," Alfred said as he took a drink of coffee. "I'm sitting right here."

"Nope. No offense, Sir." Alfred internally cringed. Maybe he really didn’t have a chance. Maybe she liked his brother? He was a lot quieter and was more considerate. Or maybe she liked Arthur? He probably reminded her more of the Southern gentleman from long ago. Shit. He was hopeless.

"What do you mean no?!" Francis snapped as if it were a personal slur against him. "I thought you of all people would say yes! You're practically his wife already-"

Dixie spluttered on her coffee and started coughing and choking violently. Mattie casually offered her a napkin, which she took with a grateful nod.

"Surrender-whore, that's enough," Arthur interjected. "You're going to kill the poor girl."

"But zey're practically childhood sweethearts! Marriage is ze next logical step! And frankly, I think you two make a good couple." Dixie opened her mouth to speak, but Francis cut her off. "Don't you start listing off ze reasons you can't be together, young lady. You've been making me sick with all zis unresolved sexual tension. I can only take so much!"

Alfred dipped his head and cast a wary eye around the café, but nobody was paying them any mind. Thank God. He let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand over his face. The rest of Francis' sentence was either drowned out or cut off by a deafening boom from the kitchen area. The rear wall exploded outward, showering them in splinters and dust, smoke billowing out on a shockwave that violently shook the room. The sound and spray of ash made Alfred tense up, eyes wide and muscles tense. His hands clenched down on the seat, making the wood beam snap under his fingers. He couldn't breathe. For a split second, he panicked, mind transported back to the sound of plane engines, bodies colliding with pavement at 25 miles per hour, screams for help, the smells of jet fuel and burning flesh and the sight...that waking nightmare that plagued his mind anytime there was an explosion.

"Get down!" Dixie barked, shoving the table on its side as a barricade before wrapping herself around him and pulling him to the floor, snapping him out of that godforsaken memory. Dixie grabbed his arm and shook him to get his attention. She was breathing heavily through her teeth. "Are you back?" she asked quietly.

Alfred nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.” He looked at the others who seemed equally rattled and confused as they sprawled awkwardly on the floor. None of them looked hurt though thankfully.

Dixie squinted as she attempted to look over the side of the table to see past the haze of smoke and ash, her gun already out and in her hands. Alfred looked up and noticed thin tongues of flame licking at the edges of the shattered walls of the kitchen. Ears ringing, all other sound severely muffled, he glanced at Dixie as she rose. A large chunk of wood shrapnel protruded from her side, coated in dark blood. He could feel the blood drain from his face as he noticed it.

Dixie motioned for him to stay put as she moved forward, speaking into her cell phone. "Code grey! Code grey! All units converge on our location with bomb equipment and emergency personnel! Be advised! Civilians in vicinity, I repeat, civilians in the vicinity!" He watched her, moving quickly towards the source of the explosion, clutching her side once a hand was free. She pulled the collar of her shirt up over her mouth and nose as she disappeared into the curtain of smoke. Getting carefully to his feet with the others, Alfred took stock of the rest of the room. Dust trickled from cracked beams in the ceiling, swirling with the smoke in visible trails to the ground.

Now that his vision was focused he noticed Mattie had a gash on his cheek. He was on the outside of the booth too…like Dixie. Now that he looked, all of them had blood trailing from their ears. Al coughed as the familiar, acrid smell of smoke began invading his lungs. "Guys, we gotta get these people outside." His voice sounded far away, like his ears were full of cotton.

No one said anything as they went to work grabbing patrons and leading them out into the sunlight and away from the building. With a creak that was loud even to his partially deafened ears, a decorated column detached from its place on the ceiling, slowly toppling. Alfred felt his eyes widen, reaching out towards the young waitress who was crying nearby. Time seemed to stretch on until he could finally grab her collar, yanking her backwards. The column still grazed her shoulder, but it was suddenly the lesser of two injuries. Even as the girl stumbled into him, Alfred heard someone falling.

"Shit!" Oh God, it was Dixie. "There better be a bus with them when they get here," she hissed.

Alfred sent the girl towards the door and went further in. Dixie was pinned under the column by the shoulders, struggling to get out on her own. With a single hand, Alfred lifted off the column so Dixie could pull herself out from underneath it. Her whole left side was covered in blood from where that chunk of wood was still lodged, and he could tell her collarbone was severely bruised...maybe broken. He carefully lifted her up into his arms and started heading towards the exit.

"You see what did this?" he asked quietly.

"Someone turned on the gas an’ let it build up," she said loudly. Blood was dripping from her ears, probably from his too. "Whoever it was jury-rigged a time-delay fuse: a lit cigarette tucked inside a book of matches. By itself, the cigarette wouldn't set off the gas, but once it hit the matches, it flared up like the Fourth of July." She grimaced as he picked up his pace to get to a source of fresh air.

"The blast weakened the entire structure," Alfred commented grimly. "You're going to need a hospital."

"I'm fine," she coughed as the light temporarily blinded them. "Put me down."

"No way."

She lifted one hand, holding out a note. "This was left on the counter just beside the door out the back." Written on it were six words in bold block letters:

READY TO PLAY DEAREST? 

Dixie and Al were driving over the Brooklyn Bridge, headed to their office at the WTC. However, they were late as usual because Alfred demanded they get breakfast at McDonald's first. Alfred was listening to some country station, singing along in that godawful Texas accent he picked up during their Ranger days. He knew it annoyed the shit out of her. Dixie was reading the paper beside him, trying not to listen to him. As she turned the page, she looked up. Why was he turning down the music? He was listening to something.

Dixie paused and did the same. That sounded like an engine. A low-flying plane went over them, and Alfred started to slow down. Surely it was nothing. Probably just a-

A massive explosion shocked Dixie from her thoughts. Before she could look back to see the cause, Alfred gasped and the car swerved. Dixie reached for the grab handle and glanced over. Alfred's eyes were wide and unseeing as red dripped from his mouth and blisters began to form on patches of blackening skin. Red began to seep into the front of his shirt, and he suddenly slumped over the wheel, his foot still on the accelerator.

"Alfred? Alfred!" She couldn't grab the wheel in time to stop the car from slamming headlong into the side of the bridge. The back of the car started flying up over them, sending them careening into the river trunk-first. The first impact with the bridge was disorienting, and she had no time to prepare for the next impact. The world quit spinning by the time the water was up to her chin.

She was trying to get her seatbelt unjammed while trying to keep Alfred's head above water. She finally gave up and went for the pocket knife in Al's pocket. By then, the water had filled the car completely. Dixie frantically sawed at the seatbelt, occasionally glancing at Alfred's still unconscious body. There were no bubbles. Shit, he wasn't breathing. Once she was free, Dixie found an air pocket and took a shallow breath. Bracing herself against her seat, she pressed her feet to the windshield. She started kicking as hard as she could, trying her hardest not to panic. Finally, a single crack formed. Pulling her gun, she fired point blank. It actually fired, causing a hole to form. She tried to fire again, but the gun refused to fire.

With one last kick, she had an escape route. Hurriedly, she cut off Alfred's belt and grabbed his hand, pulling him through the hole in the windshield and up to safety. She knew immediately that something was wrong. The water was too murky for her to see anything, but she could feel Alfred's heavy weight dragging her down as she frantically tugged them both upwards. He wasn't swimming; he wasn't moving. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire, crying out for oxygen, but she had to keep going. There was no other option. She had to make it to the surface. She had to save Alfred. Dixie kept pushing herself upwards, ignoring her screaming lungs, begging her body to keep going. Just as she felt herself beginning to succumb to sleep, she felt air hit her fingertips. One more stroke later, and her head was out of the water.

She took a deep, gasping breath, gulping in the oxygen. After sputtering and coughing for a moment, she yanked Alfred up, pulling his head above the surface to rest against her shoulder. The shore was only a few yards away. Dixie pulled Al closer, cradling his head above the water as she swam towards the solid ground. Finally, she made it, pulling herself and Alfred out of the water and onto the solid ground. The moment she pulled his body up beside her, she collapsed, lying on the ground and taking deep breaths, steadying herself.

That's when she saw the two massive pillars of black smoke where their office was supposed to be. It was only then that she remembered that Alfred wasn't breathing. In fact, he wasn't even moving at all. Dixie immediately sprang up, pulling his upper half into her arms as quickly as she could. "Sir," she said, a sense of urgency welling up in her voice. "Come on, Sir. Wake up." She placed her hands on his shoulders and shook them gently as she spoke, instantly noticing how clammy his skin was. His head lolled back, jerking around with her shaking, and his eyes remained shut, chest frighteningly still. "Damn it!" she shouted, reaching into her pocket for her phone. She had to call HQ. Had to get an bus here. Had to...

Her phone was dead.

Of course. It had been submerged in the water for several minutes. She threw it somewhere and grabbed her emergency radio. "Code black! Code black! I have an NNB on the shore of East River."

"Um...I'm new here, ma'am. Could you tell me what...NNB means?"

"It means nation not breathing, now get me a bus!"

"I'll try ma'am but most of our resources have been diverted to the efforts at the World Trade Center. A pla-“

"You listen to me, this is a nation! If he dies, the country is done for! Now get me that ambulance or I swear to God, this voice will be the last one you ever fuckin’ hear!" Dixie shifted her hands, gently cradling Alfred's head as she lowered him to the ground, laying him flat on his back. His face was blanching, and his lips were starting to turn blue. "Stay with me," she murmured, brushing the wet cowlick from his face. The simple action caused an onslaught of memories: Alfred lying on his back during Pearl Harbor and the Murrah bombing just six years earlier, his blood a bright red against a pale beige carpet with her kneeling over him, just like she was now, begging him to stay with her, because she loved him and he had to live.

She placed her palms against his sternum, her mind racing. She laced her fingers together and began to press down on his chest rapidly and repeatedly, counting each compression aloud with desperation. As soon as she reached twenty, Dixie pinched Alfred's nose shut with her right hand as she gently covered his lips with hers, blowing air into his mouth. Her left hand remained on his chest, and she felt it rise and fall as she breathed for him. After a second breath, she pulled away, her eyes darting to his chest, watching for motion. But he was still. Alfred still wasn't breathing. Fuck. She moved her hands to his chest, beginning compressions again with more vigor than the first time. She had to keep going; she had to keep administering CPR until someone, anyone, showed up. Because someone was going to come. Somebody would find them; they'd bring dry clothes and hot coffee, and…why was Al so cold?

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

She allowed her hands to linger on his chest for what seemed like an eternity, waiting to feel his chest rise and fall; waiting for him to take a breath. He remained motionless though, the color continuing to fade from his cheeks as she watched the life drain. The black magic seals that bound her to him began to burn as his body started draining her of her energy to keep his body viable. No. This couldn't be happening. "I cain't lose you!" she cried as she cradled his head. "Don’t you fuckin’ dare do this ta me." Dixie leaned over him, positioning her mouth directly over his. "I love you, Alfred," she whispered before breathing air into his lungs.

Almost instantly, he gasped, a mix of water, spit and blood spurting from his mouth as he began to cough and vomit. He was alive. Quickly, she pulled him upright, letting him lean against her as he continued coughing up breakfast. Finally, the coughs subsided, and he sagged in her grip, letting out a shaky breath.

"You're okay, Sir," Dixie murmured reassuringly. "You're okay," she repeated, gently rubbing his back. "You're safe."

"No," he whispered, the effort of speaking causing another fit of coughing. His eyes were vacant and he was shaking. "I'm not okay. Nothing is okay."

It's assumed by many and Marilyn Monroe and President John F. Kennedy had a short-term affair. There's no concrete evidence to support this theory.

I know this subject is triggering, so I tried to keep it as vague as possible to keep people from reliving those memories. I know if I read something very descriptive about the attacks, I get upset. Please don’t think of this as trying to brush off the horrible things that happened that day. I just didn't want to get too gruesome or detailed. The events of that day will never be forgiven or forgotten.

The Murrah bombing was a domestic terrorist bomb attack on the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. The bombing killed 168 people and injured more than 680 others. The blast destroyed/damaged 324 buildings within a 16-block radius, destroyed/burned 86 cars, and shattered glass in 258 nearby buildings. The Murrah building housed several offices and a nursery/daycare center where many children and infants were killed. On April 19, 2000, the Oklahoma City National Memorial was dedicated on the site of the Murrah Federal Building, commemorating the victims of the bombing. It’s a beautiful memorial, and I recommend anyone in Oklahoma go visit.

Chapter Text

Left, right, turn...left, right, turn...left, right, turn...

Alfred was pacing again, eyes locked on the ground as he focused intensely on keeping his shoes within the confines of an individual tile with each step. He received wary sidelong glances from every doctor and nurse that passed by. They likely knew just by looking at him that it wouldn't be wise to ask him if he was okay. He wasn’t okay. How could he be? His pace faltered as his thoughts strayed to the events at the café. The sound of an explosion. The smell of ash and smoke. The sickening, terrifying realization that Dixie's blood was seeping through his shirt and onto his skin.

He shook his head as if to clear the thoughts that had invaded his mind. With a slight grunt he cast his eyes down and attempted to concentrate solely on his pacing. He couldn’t think about what happened right now. He’d been torturing himself for the past two hours, and he knew that the mere memory of her blood would open doors to more emotions than he was capable of concealing.

The sound of a door opening shattered the nation's tenuous concentration. “Alright, you can go in now,” a smiling nurse that reminded him of Feliciano told him, holding open the door. “She’s just getting dressed, but afterwards she’s free to go! Have a nice day, Mr. Jones.”

Alfred nodded his thanks before swiftly entering the room. He had a feeling that his attempts to conceal his desperation weren’t fooling anyone. He couldn’t help it, though. He needed to see her, know she was still breathing. Being separated from her when she was hurt made him feel like he was submerged underwater: useless, helpless, without oxygen. She was sitting on the edge of her bed with her back to the door, struggling to pull on the spare boots he'd brought her. She was wearing a pair of his drawstring sweatpants and one of his tshirts. It was all he had since he only managed to grab his carry on that had two changes of clothes inside. The shirt dwarfed her and looked strangely mismatched with the pants, but Alfred thought she looked beautiful regardless. He watched as she huffed in frustration, unable to bend to pull on her shoes without her injury stopping her. She carefully reached up to tuck her hair back behind her ear with a shaky, fumbling hand. He allowed the door to close quietly and stepped fully into the room.

Taking pity on her, he spoke up. “Need some help with that?”

Dixie jumped up, startled. "Sir, I-AH!" Whatever she was about to say was replaced by the hiss of pain that accompanied her feeble attempt to stand. Her eyes screwed shut and her other hand flew to the bandages covering her lower right abdomen. All the color seemed to drain from her face in an instant.

Alfred rushed forward, catching her by the shoulders and gently guiding her back to sit her on the bed. He felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest knowing she was in pain. “Damn, Dix. Think a little, would ya?” He hated how harsh he sounded. “One more stunt like that and you’ll be here for a month. I need you back home. That paperwork isn't gonna sort itself, y’know?" he said with a smile.

She humored his pathetic attempt to lighten the mood with a slight smile. To anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but it made Alfred feel like he was flying. “Sorry, Sir. Y'know what they say ‘bout old habits.”

Al eyed his bodyguard critically. He noted how she was still clutching her side. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave, Dix? There’s no rush. Seriously, we can wait until you feel better.”

“Positive, Sir,” she replied immediately, reaching for her boots once again. “I cain’t stand the smells a these places. Besides, I think I’ve left your back unguarded long enough.” Alfred flinched. How could she possibly say that after what happened? 

“Okay, Dix. Looks like they brought that ambulance," Al said, relieved. However, he wondered why his bodyguard hadn’t responded or moved for that matter. "Dixie?" He looked down and felt his heart drop down into his shoes. Dixie was ashen and still as death as her blood continued to ooze onto both their clothes. “Dixie!” Al shouted, his voice thick with emotion. He shook her gently, trying to wake her without inflicting further injury by moving her too much.

“Mattie! Francis! Arthur!" he yelled to any nation who could hear him. "Get help, Dixie’s down!” He yelled as loudly as he could, refusing to take his eyes off the woman in his arms. He only vaguely realized that someone yelled something in response as his attention was now fully on his fallen bodyguard. "Oh god, no. This can't be happening. Not her. Please not her." Al felt panic threaten to overtake him and squashed it down as best he could. "Dix!" Her eyes were closed and she made no indication of hearing him. He could feel some of his strength waning as she fed off his energy to keep herself alive. “Dammit, Bohannon! Answer me! You’re not allowed to die, remember?” He'd never know how his voice stayed so strong when he was falling apart inside.

"Oh shit," Mattie hissed. Al couldn’t tear his eyes away though as his brother searched for her pulse. It was the longest five seconds of Alfred's life. "She's alive. Barely."

He wasn't worth this. She couldn’t die. She wouldn’t. It didn’t make sense. Her life was worth so much more than his. “Come on Dix, open your eyes," he begged.

“Al, the paramedics are here.” Mattie's voice came from in front of him, accompanied by the heavy footsteps of four others. He ripped his gaze from his dying bodyguard and eyed the paramedics warily. Arthur and Francis were there as well. At the moment, he felt too vulnerable to trust anyone. He drew Dixie closer to him protectively.

“You’ve got to let 'er go, ami. She needs 'elp,” Francis told him softly, sensing his hesitation.

He was numb as the paramedics flocked him, gently prying the prone Dixie from his arms. The absence of her body heat did nothing if not add to his panic. Before he knew what was happening she was gone, whisked away to the ambulance. He had never felt more alone.

“Let’s go, lad. We’ll meet up with them at the hospital.” Arthur's forced optimism contradicted the paleness of his face as he patted Al’s shoulder. Alfred didn’t move. He was in shock. He had become captivated by the blood that covered the front of his shirt and his hands.

After a few moments he took a step on unsteady feet. "Yeah."

Dixie eyed her commanding officer critically. He had adopted a distant, pained expression that she had become all too familiar with in the two days since she woke up in the hospital and the three it took to get her stable enough for travel. He was thinking about it again. He exhaled heavily and ran his fingers through his unruly hair.

He plastered a smile on his face that Dixie knew wasn’t even close to genuine. “I don’t think you’ll be fit to watch my back for a while, dude. You need to take it easy. Now let’s get you out of here. The plane’s waiting for the dynamic duo."

"Waitin'? We ain't flying commercial."

"Yeah, after the attack, they sent the VC-25." She watched as Alfred sat across from her and grabbed her boot. He took her foot and gently helped her get her shoes on. His eyes were downcast as he worked on the laces, but Dixie could still see the sadness in them. “I’m so sorry, Dix.” His voice was so quiet she almost missed it. His eyes were on the ground.

“Sir?”

“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Her heart tugged painfully at the sadness and remorse evident in his voice. “This ain't your fault, Sir. This was the act of a psychotic madman.” She told him gently. “'Sides, it's my job,” she added simply. “Even into Hell, remember? Or at least the Latin version of it Britain carved into my soul.”

He was quiet for a moment. He had finished tying the laces of her boot but he maintained his grip on her foot. “You can’t die for me.”

“I ain't got no intention a dyin' for ya, Sir. But I’ve sworn to protect you. If the time comes when-“

“No.” His voice was quiet yet firm. He finally looked up to stare her in the eyes. Instantly Dixie wished he hadn’t. “You can’t die for me. I can’t…I don’t know how…I can’t lose you.” He was whispering. He severed eye contact during his admission. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Dixie felt tears begin to well up in her eyes and pushed them back down angrily. She wouldn’t cry in front of her commander. What was Alfred thinking?! He toeing an unspoken yet ubiquitous line—one that, if crossed, would open the door to feelings she was not ready to deal with. “Sir..." Her emotions won an internal struggle against logic and she reached down and grabbed his hand, wincing at the slight pull in her side. His gaze floated back to meet hers. She hadn’t been this close to the line since that party earlier in the week when he nearly kissed her. “I ain't got no regrets. If my death means your life then I’ll die happy.”

The nation's eyes flashed with startling anger. He stood, dropping her hand and turning away from her. His hand combed through his hair again in agitation. “Fuck, Dixie. Don’t you get it?!” She flinched at his tone. He rarely yelled at her. “I don’t want you to die for me. I want you to live for me!”

She stared at him in silent shock, completely clueless as to how to respond. They had definitely crossed a line now. He walked over to her window and leaned against the frame. He was breathing heavily. Dixie stood up quietly. Yet another internal battle was being waged inside of her. If she was going to cross the line, she might as well go ahead and really cross it. Her footfalls were quiet against the tiled floor as she approached him. After a moment of hesitation she wrapped her arms around his waist and allowed her cheek to rest against his back. Al tensed at the contact but relaxed once he realized what was happening. “I’m sorry, Sir," she murmured into his back. “I’m sorry I put you through this.”

He deflated at her apology and sighed before pulling away. She hadn't expected it to hurt as much as it did to step away from that fine line between them. “I don’t want you to be sorry.” He had adopted a low, gentle tone once again. “I just…need you to be okay.”

"I understand, Sir."

"Alright," he said as he put on one of those cheeky smiles as he pulled away. "Let's hurry then. I want to see if they'll let me fly the plane."

“I sincerely hope not,” she grumbled.

“What was that?”

“I heard they got a McDonald’s around the corner.”

“Seriously? Dude, awesome! We’re so taking a detour!”

Chapter Text

Alfred grinned as he looked at the totally badass plane out the armored SUV window. He loved the VC-25! It was totally fucking kickass! It had two main decks and a cargo area, like a Boeing 747, but with 4,000 square feet of floor space. Its lowest level held cargo and the onboard food supply. The main passenger area was on the second floor. Communications equipment and the cockpit were on the uppermost deck where he loved to be most! The front of the aircraft was referred to as the "White House" of the aircraft which is where the President and Alfred's onboard suites were. The suites had sleeping quarters with two couches that could be converted into a bed, a toilet and shower, a vanity and a double sink. Alfred and the president sort of shared the "Oval Office" on board, but Alfred did most of his work in the conference room. He wasn’t allowed to be in the public eye much.

He hoped they'd let him fly it a little bit or let him act as a co-pilot. He hadn't flown in three months, and he was getting antsy. Man, he’d love to see the Atlantic passing under him as the sunlight glistened on the water’s surface. As soon as the car stopped, Alfred was out and headed towards the plane to board and pester the pilot until he let him fly. When he was at the top of the stairs, he looked back to get a final glimpse of Italy. That's when he saw Dixie slowly walking towards the stairs. He didn't miss the pained look that crossed her features for a fraction of a second either. Her walk was stiff and delicate, almost to the point of being comical. As she took the first stair step, he could see that her jaw was clenched, her knuckles white on the railing. She was making a great deal of effort trying to look relaxed, but it was clear she was in a lot of pain.

"You alright, Dix?"

She almost seemed to flinch at the question. "'m fine," she answered a bit too quickly and brashly. Her eyes were glazed from the Vicodin, and her skin was pale and slick with sweat. From this angle, the dark circles under her eyes had become much more pronounced.

"You sure you're alright?" he asked, unable to mask his concern.

"'m fine, Sir."

Alfred narrowed his eyes and walked down until he was right in front of her. He gingerly reached out as if approaching a scared animal and placed his palm on her forehead, recoiling almost instantly at the unusually hot touch. Dixie tended to have a low body temperature, and she was almost as warm as him right now. "You've got a fever," he said, his voice laced with worry.

"I said 'm fine.”

"Dude, you look like shit. Don't lie."

Dixie glared at him.

"Let me help you." He carefully hooked his arms behind her shoulders and knees. "One, two, three. Up."

Every muscle in her body seemed to seize up. She took the starched collar of his shirt between her teeth and bit down a scream. Alfred instantly felt guilty, but he knew this would be better in the long run. If he got her into the plane faster, she wouldn't be in pain as long. He could feel her feeding off of his life force as her body struggled to heal itself. That seal Artie created was the cause. He started taking two steps at a time while she continued to groan against his neck. He couldn't help but get just a little aroused at the thought of those moans coming out of pleasure he gave, but when she started shaking, all thoughts of arousal left him. He needed to get her to a place for her to lay down and rest.

“Man, you’re really sucking me dry. I knew we should've kept you in the hospital. You’re still not healthy enough to travel.”

"No, too much work…back home."

Alfred took her back to his suite and pulled out the bed so she could lie down. He called the on board physician in and watched as she slowly unwrapped Dixie's bandage. He wasn't prepared to see it though. Usually he wasn't very squeamish but for some reason the sight of Dixie's stomach sewed together made him want to vomit. There was a little bit of blood and a small line of pus, but the physician seemed pleased as she cleaned the wound and put antibiotic ointment on as she redid the bandages.

"It looks good considering what happened. You probably won't even have a scar. Just rest for now and try not to move too much." Dixie nodded silently with her eyes closed. She didn't look as bad as she had before. She actually looked like she was relaxing.

The nurse turned to him. “If she starts getting any worse, come get me. I put a low dose morphine patch on. If she starts puking, take it off and call for me.”

“Got it.”

"Sir, the pilot wants to know if you'd like to takeoff."

"Hells yeah, bro!" Al cheered, but then he remembered Dixie and turned to look at her guiltily.

"Go," Dixie said tiredly, not even looking at him as she waved him off. "But no flips or I swear to God I'll eviscerate you."

Alfred laughed. "Roger!"

When he returned, Dixie was sound asleep, and she looked much better. Her pain medication was finally starting to kick in. Good, she needed the rest. Alfred carefully and quietly slipped over to the bed and crawled in perpendicular to her. He carefully lifted her head and laid it on his chest. He ran his hand through her shaggy hair, careful to not tug when he encountered tangles or snags. Every once in a while, his fingers would brush against her cheek and make her scrunch her small nose cutely. Fuck, she was gorgeous.

He was smitten, but...he could never confess in person. He might be a hero in all other aspects, but here he was a coward. Even if by the smallest miracle, she had the same feelings in return, it wouldn't be possible. A love between them would be frowned upon by his bosses and possibly even some of the nations. There would be consequences for such a love affair, and the majority came more from talk than law. Call him a coward if they wanted to. Maybe this is his way of running from his fears. Or maybe this was the only method he could handle confronting his feelings. It was almost heart-breaking to say "I love you" to a woman who couldn't say it back because she was asleep. This was sad and depressing. This was torture. This was better than facing the reality of it all.

"I love you, Dixie. I've loved you since Antietam. I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to tell you,” he muttered as he brushed her hair from her face.

The dancing bonfire before Confederacy did nothing to warm her but was quite triumphant at providing a distraction from the carnage surrounding her. She tried to block out the joyous, inebriated cries of the nearby higher ranked Union men as they downed beer by the case. Meanwhile, her men and the foot soldiers of the Union were working to bury their men while the brief truce was still in effect. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them forsaking their clothes to keep the blood off of them while they moved carcasses. Like her men, she had grown numb to such grotesque scenes as the ones before her. During the fight, a kill had become as meaningless as taking a piss. There was no sense of accomplishment or justice anymore. There was no need to keep track of how many she killed; she just had to tell her boys to get it done and move on to the next. It wasn't until something new and outside of the routine came along that she had any surge of feelings that she had to fight to quell. The scene around her was the latest. Confederacy knew this was the end for her. This fight was the one that would determine the tide of the rest of the war. It was going to determine whether or not she would receive support from Britain and France. This so-called win by the Union was the result of thousands of Union and Confederate soldiers dying at the hands of their brothers. The Union soldiers disgusted her. They weren't dying for a country or for its people—despite what they may tell themselves in order to get through this. They were dying because the Union didn't want to let their cash cow go.

"Ms. Confederacy," a voice to her right said calmly. For a second her mind didn't register the voice. She lifted her head to look at the man sitting next to her: General Robert E. Lee. Confederacy was thankful that by his tone and gloomy expression he didn't seem to be partaking in partying like their enemies. His hat was in his hand as he joined her beside the fire, running a hand through his thinning hair. "You...did a really great job out there, ma'am. You should be proud of yer boys," he said with genuine respect.

"Thank ya kindly, Robert. I am proud of them. They're...like my children," she answered, her voice sounding much quieter than she was expecting. Her throat was tender from the cut America made with his bayonet and from the stitches sewn in only an hour or two ago.

"I figure that's why they call us sons of the South."

"A poetic little phrase used to soothe the hearts of orphans, widows and mothers back home,” she said monotonously.

He held out a flask to her that looked like some sort of hard liquor. Confederacy took it and knocked back the moonshine. The burn was soothing and warmed her despite the chilled Maryland air. She handed it back and cleared her throat, an action that tugged at the stitches holding her skin and tissues together.

"Doc said it's a miracle you ain't dead."

"Miracle or curse?" she said only half joking. “You haven’t met another nation before have ya?”

“’fraid not, ma’am.”

“Consider yerself lucky.”

Lee smirked. "We'll be movin' out shortly. I wanna get as far away from the Yanks as I can by the time this truce ends." Confederacy nodded as she started walking out onto the battlefield.

She walked past the freedmen of the North and foot soldiers of the South burying both Union and Confederate soldiers. She still couldn't believe Lincoln had the nerve to tell the public that this war was for slavery. She walked slowly but purposefully across the field trying to block out the drunken shouting, side-stepping around bodies and salvaged equipment and uniforms, until his tent was in sight. It was much smaller than the ones that housed the other high ranked officers. It also happened to be located in a quieter area of the Union encampment. She walked towards the tent and could see that it was empty. She veered away from the tent, far enough that it wouldn’t look too much like she was waiting for him. Meanwhile she looked out over the carnage, pushing her glasses further down her nose to get a better look. If Confederacy listened closely enough, she could hear the screams of the dying and wounded as unskilled doctors tried to undo the damage done by the fight. Thing is, most of them knew that even if they survived the surgery, they wouldn't survive the infections and gangrene that would follow the healing process.

After about fifteen minutes of brooding and waiting, Confederacy could hear someone walking up behind her with heavy, booted footsteps. She could tell by the clinking that whoever it was, they were highly decorated. "Dinah? I-Is that you?"

Her resolve halted at the sound of that name, so foreign to her now. For the last three years she had been Confederacy and Dixieland, a name she wore with great pride. Dinah was another person, a shy, damaged child who sequestered herself from the world and spent all her time working to make others happy. She was Confederacy now, a battle hardened General used to the wails of the dying and the stench of the dead. By now, she felt like she wore it like a mantle. At the sound of that name though, a flood of emotions hit her. When she encountered him on the battlefield he never referred to her as anything but "you" or Confederacy. She had adapted to the new title fine when her Constitution was signed, but for her to hear that name, especially from him, it reminded her that he was the only one who knew who she was before all this. She took a moment to compose herself and push down all of those hindering emotions and memories.

"It ain't appropriate ta call me that, America," she said as he came to stand beside her. She could see from the corner of her eye that his nose was broken from where she clocked him after having her throat slit. He had an ugly bruise that spread from his nose to his eyes. Maybe she broke his cheekbone too when she wailed into him.

He looked haggard with his wheat blonde hair mussed and bags under his eyes from not having a proper sleep since this fiasco began. His eyes were hollow and dimmed from losing a part of himself, much like her own dimmed eyes. It was like they were both missing something and made then seem unnatural. He looked like he'd lost some weight and a few inches off his height. She'd never seen him look so dead before. Not even during his revolution. He was looking at her throat where he cut her. She almost thought he looked grieved and guilty as he stared at her. She kept her face neutral in the presence of her enemy. "Traditional protocol has been dropped tonight if you haven't noticed," he said apathetically. "So to what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked without a touch of joy.

"I came ta congratulate ya on what yer men are callin’ a great strategic victory."

He chuckled. "Some victory." They remained silent for several moments side by side. "You, uhm...you did good yourself. I was amazed at how long you kept fighting after I…y’know.”

Dixie frowned and turned to face him. "I'm also here ta congratulate ya on winning the war." She removed a riding glove and offered him a bloodstained hand.

He looked startled and confused. "W-What?"

She rolled her eyes. Even during war times, he never was one for foreseeing upcoming events. He dealt with things when they bit him in the ass. "Don't act stupid, America. We both know what Lincoln's gonna do when he hears bout this. My spies told me that much. He's gonna give that ridiculous Proclamation, an’ he's gonna turn the world against me. Britain and France will tuck tail an’ run an’ deny me military supplies an’ men."

"How long have you thought this? That you'd lose?" he asked, sounding almost curious.

"I've known since Shenandoah. I may have the better economy out of the two a us, but I lack supplies an’ bodies." "Then why have you kept on fighting?" he asked in astonishment. His awe confused her as did the change in his eyes.

"As long as the people and the states still have hope in what I represent, I will continue to keep a brave face until the moment you succeed in killin’ me."

He let out a huff of air. "Wow...you're a better nation than I'll ever be."

"Not for long, I'm afraid," she said tiredly.

"General Bohannon?" Dixie turned to see one of her Colonel's watching her.

She frowned and put a hand on her saber as she lowered her tone to a more masculine, gruff level. "What is it, Isaac?"

"General Lee says we're movin' out. Says he wants you at the front of the march."

"Very well. Get movin'," she said as she turned back to America. "Next time we meet, I expect ya ta kill me," she whistled and watched as her white horse came running up the gentle slope. As he stopped, she mounted and tipped her hat at America.

"This is goodbye." "No," he said smiling gently, his eyes holding some foreign emotion. "It's just a new hello."

VC-25 is another name for Air Force One

After the Battle of Sharpsburg (Antietam), both sides decided to hold a temporary truce so they could bury their dead and dying. The battle was a draw, but the Union claimed it as a victory.

Chapter Text

Dixie grimaced with every jolt of the SUV as it drove through New York towards her apartment. They would grab her dogs and do a bomb run in Alfred's apartment after her things were put away. As soon as the armored vehicle stopped, Dixie opened the door and gingerly stepped onto the lightly frosted sidewalk, shivering at the jolt of chilled air. She went towards the trunk only to see Alfred grabbing her things. "Sir, them bags are heavy," Dixie chastised as she tried to take the bags.

"Which is exactly why you aren't going to carry them," Alfred said with a smile, jerking the bags out of her reach. “The doc said no heavy lifting or strenuous activity.”

They stared each other down for a few moments before Dixie finally gave in and entered the building with Alfred following close behind. She took the flights of stairs gingerly since she was still healing to the third floor where her small apartment was. She pulled out her keys and fumbled to get it into the door. She could hear Stonewall yipping from somewhere inside. It sounded like it was coming from her bedroom. With a weary smirk, Dixie opened the door to her home.

She gave a startled cry as a blur of dark tan assaulted her and massive weight threw her to the floor. She managed to catch her assailant around his big furry gut to protect him as the air was knocked out of her and her stitches screamed at her. She groaned when she felt the painful protests of her wound, but it was welcome given the circumstances. The groan was replaced with a grin as she was assaulted by a pair of slobbering tongues. Here, she felt loved beyond measure.

"Ulysses, you idgit! Stonewall, Stonewall, not in ma mouth." Dixie laughed as she scratched his head. "Alright, off!" She snapped.

Both moved away to sit side by side as Alfred sat down her things and lifted her back onto her feet slowly, looking at where her bandages were. "So much for low impact activity."

Dixie chuckled. "It's worth it." As soon as she was up she patted her chest and Ulysses was back to hugging her with his paws around her neck on his hind legs. Stonewall was tugging on her slacks with his teeth.

"Looks like they missed you."

Dixie pushed Ulysses off after hugging and kissing him to give Stonewall some attention. With some difficulty, she lifted him up and nuzzled his face against her cheek despite Alfred's protests that she wasn't supposed to be doing heavy lifting. As he was taught, he wrapped his paws around her neck to receive attention as well. "I missed them too," she said as she walked further into her home. Judging by the filled bowls she'd say New York had been by to feed them for her. She’d have to send him a gift later. "Make yourself comfortable, Sir. I'll only be a minute."

Dixie walked into her bedroom and started getting out the dogs' equipment from under her bed in a plastic tub. Both dogs had their own bullet proof vests. Ulysses' was bright orange and had a place for a camera. Since Stonewall was still growing and still in training, his was adjustable and had less reinforcement. It would last him until he was a year old. His color was fluorescent yellow since he was still being trained. She stopped when she heard Alfred in the sitting area.

"Good boy! You too, Stonie." A short, deep woof resounded as response followed by a sharp, high pitched yip. She really hoped he grew out of that annoying bark soon. Neither she nor Ulysses were very fond of Stonewall's bark. To shut him up, Ulysses would often take the pup's muzzle into his mouth and gingerly hold it shut until he stopped. "Now shake. Awesome! Roll over. Paws. Dude, Dix, how did you teach them all this!"

"Ask ‘em to say hello, Sir," she called pridefully.

"Say hello. Hello."

He was met by a pair of throaty dog voices mimicking his voice. "Howrow."

"Dude, that’s so awesome! They know anything else?"

"Ask ‘em who they love."

"Hey, dudes, who do you love?"

Ulysses was first. "Ri rahv marma."

"Marma," Stonewall echoed. He was still learning.

"That's totally awesome. I'm so posting that to YouTube!" Dixie chuckled, beaming like a proud mother as she carried the leashes, camera and vests in. She let out a low pitch whistle and they came trotting over to her. They knew what that whistle meant: it was time to go to work.

She went to kneel, but Alfred stopped her by kneeling and starting to strap in both dogs with some vocal guidance from Dixie. He didn't even let her take the leashes as they left to head to his home. Honestly, this mother hen business was getting ridiculous. 

Pausing at the door just long enough to remove his shoes and coat, the man crossed to the heavy trunk in the far corner. It took two minutes to shed his faux security uniform and replace it with dark pants and a cream-colored shirt. Stretching languidly, he turned towards the writing desk that stood against the wall, under the window next to his listening equipment. Lying atop it were several scribbled-upon pages: notes. The man settled himself in the chair, beginning to sift through it all attentively. For the most part, many of the notes were repetitive.

"You certainly are a creature of habit, aren't you dearest?" the man tsked. "Not good for a soldier. It makes you far too predictable. Up at four in the morning, out the door anywhere between six and six-thirty, always at the office no later than seven forty." He tilted his head. "Orderly and efficient describe you well. Businesslike. Respectful, even deferential. The perfect model of a perfect soldier." A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Except for that nasty persona you adopt when you're at war. Of course, knowing your history, that's completely understandable. And speaking of..."

He shuffled through the pages, laying them out across the desk. His fingers touched a line of writing on one, then another on a second page, a third on another, all saying the same thing: appears unusually close to America. "How you must enjoy your time with your commanding officer. I wonder how he'll react when I'm done with you."

Leaning back in his chair, the man rubbed his chin in thought. Lifting his arm, he checked the watch on his wrist: one-thirty in the afternoon. Her flight landed an hour ago, meaning a new sound byte was awaiting him. How wonderful it would be to hear her voice after her hiatus. So, in the name of preparation, the man rose from the desk chair and turned toward the bed for a catnap as he put on a set of headphones to listen.

Dixie opened the door to Alfred's apartment and grimaced. Much like the resident, the home was filled to the brim and was ensconced in bold colors. It was also very, very messy. Clothes and empty food containers were strewn about the home, and there was an odd smell that lingered over the air. Dixie walked in first with the dogs and started guiding them around the apartment, weaving in and out of the hall as she cleared the rooms. Once everything was cleared, Dixie gave each dog a treat and let them relax. That's when Cochise came down from his perch on a bookshelf, running to his master to greet him.

An ear piercing shriek coming from the kitchen startled Dixie. That was Stonewall. It sounded like he was getting his leg sawed off or his tail got cut in a lawn mower. Dixie rushed over to see Stonewall circling the refrigerator. A bomb? How did Stonewall detect it when Ulysses didn't? She carefully stepped forward, relieving him with a pat on the head. Then she foolishly opened the refrigerator door. "What in the Sam Hill?!" she gagged as she slammed the door shut. That's where the smell was coming from! She braced herself and reopened it. There was a carton of milk almost three months old, moldy bread and several half empty containers of take out. One looked to be at least eight months old. "Christ almighty, Sir! How the hell am I s'pose ta protect you when ya shovel this in yer mouth?!"

"C'mon, Dix," Alfred said as he filled Cochise's bowl with food. "I think that's a bit of an overreaction."

"We're going shoppin'. Right now."

"What?! Why?! C'mon, we just got back, bro!"

"I ain't doin' my job if I let you eat this...stuff. Look, Ulysses won't even touch it."

"No."

"Sir," she snapped in warning.

"But I don't wanna!"

"C'mon," Dixie said stiffly.

She snapped and pointed to one of Alfred's couches, and her dogs went to lay down. Seeing new playmates, Alfred's insanely overweight cat went over to investigate. They would keep each other busy while she was busy trying to keep Alfred from poisoning himself with anything in that fridge.

When they reached the store, Dixie immediately headed for the produce section while Alfred pushed the cart. She starting putting in all sorts of things like potatoes, green onions, green tomatoes, green beans, corn and much more. She also got apples, peaches and lots of okra. They moved on to the deli and she bought two whole chickens, three cuts of beef and two of pork. She moved on to baking items and kitchen necessities, only occasionally grabbing snacks and junk food. All the while Alfred watched as the cart got fuller.

"Uh, Dix...you know I probably won't use most of this, right?"

"I'm aware, Sir," she said as she put in eggs and Tupperware containers. "But if I cook meals, I know you'll eat 'em, an’ that way I'll have peace a mind knowin' you ain't killed yourself."

"Dix," Alfred said solemnly. "You...you don't have to do this, y'know?"

Dixie paused and looked at him. "I swore to protect you, Sir, and I'm doin' it ta the best a my abilities. Now, which frostin' you want on yer cinnamon rolls?"

"Fuckin' A! Cream cheese, bro! I fucking love your cinnamon rolls."

The rest of the trip was uneventful even when the total came out to three figures. Once they returned to Alfred's flat, Dixie spent the majority of her time slowly cooking food and cleaning Alfred's house. He kept telling her she didn't have to clean, but dear god, it was driving her up the wall! How did he ever survive without supervision?! Then again, he was a bachelor.

Any time Alfred would invite her to rest, Dixie would refuse and continue working. This kept on until seven in the evening when she had twelve meals prepared, though for Alfred it would be only seven. She called her dogs and let Alfred lead her to the door in awkward silence. What they had a few minutes ago...it felt comfortable and domestic. But she couldn't have that. Especially not with him.

"Well," Dixie said quietly. "I s'pose I'll see ya tomorrow?"

"Bright and early," Alfred said with a nervous, bubbly laugh. "Thanks for doing all this, Dix. I really appreciate it."

Dixie blushed lightly and nodded. "It was an honor, Sir."

Chapter Text

Dixie stared at the envelope laying on top of her paperwork, an antagonist. It'd slipped out of a file folder, rendering her frozen. Her brain couldn't seem to comprehend that she could throw the letter out or tear it to shreds. She'd managed to shove the matter of this mystery letter into the back of her mind for the past four days, but now it was back with a vengeance. She'd convinced herself it was a hoax after seeing the signature affixed to it before shoving it into the bottom file of her briefcase. Now though, it was reminding her that there was a minuscule possibility that an enemy was still alive and looking for her. That was enough to make her freeze up, a dangerous thing for a soldier to be doing.

"Yoohoo, Dixie? Ya there?" Dixie looked up expectantly, sliding a file over the letter. Alfred was watching her, waving an arm in her direction. "I've been calling your name for like, forever, bro! Everything okay?"

Dixie took a deep breath and evenly returned his gaze. "Yes, Sir."

Al sighed and dropped his hand, the curiosity replaced with a serious look. "You never just stare off into space without a reason. Something's bugging you. What is it?"

There was no need to drag him into this particular personal problem. He worried about her enough ever since the bombing even though she was already healed. "My mind's elsewhere, Sir, that's all," she hedged, being sure to make eye contact. If she didn't, he would know she was lying. "There's a lot going on right now that has ta be dealt with." He wavered visibly, on the verge of accepting what she told him.

"You'd tell me if there was something wrong, right?"

Dixie nodded, holding her breath as she waited. Finally, with an acknowledging nod, Alfred's attention returned to his work, and Dixie suppressed a sigh of relief. He could be so stubborn in rooting out the truth—especially when it came to those close to him—that it was nothing short of a miracle he'd let this one go. She couldn't show him the letter. That much was certain. Returning to her work, she pushed her thoughts aside, focusing on the monotonous task of finding information for a manpower report. Across the room, the phone on Alfred's desk rang.

"Jones." A pause, then a frown in his next words. "That's right...Yeah, she's right here. Hold on." She was already looking up by the time he called her name. Wordlessly, he pointed to the receiver.

Getting to her feet, she crossed to his desk, speaking quietly. "Who is it?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. Whoever it is, he sounds serious." A man calling the office asking for her personally? Dixie would've frowned but for the sudden feeling of her stomach hitting the floor. What if this was the same person who sent her that strange letter and planted that bomb, calling to threaten her or Alfred?

Lifting the receiver to her ear, she took a deep breath. "Bohannon."

"Afternoon, ma'am. My name's Detective Gorlomi. I'm with the NYPD." So it wasn't her mysterious letter-writer after all.

"Ta what do I owe the pleasure, detective?"

"It's nothing good, ma'am. Do you know a man named Malachi Hanzari or his wife Louise?"

Dixie frowned. "Yes. Has one a them done somethin' wrong?"

There was a quiet sigh. "Their cafe was...I'm going to need you to meet me here, ma'am."

"What branch do you work in, detective?" Dixie asked as a cold knot of dread sticking in her gut.

"Homicide." S

he was vaguely aware that on the edge of her peripheral vision, Alfred was watching her, taking in every detail of her expressions and movements. She took a slow, shaky breath. She could feel the blood draining from her face. "I'll be there in fifteen." 

Take away the milling civilians, the police blockades, the ambulance and the serious-faced men in uniform, and it looked like there wasn't anything wrong with the cafe. There was no broken glass, no blood, no bullet holes like Dixie had been expecting. Dread was forming a hard knot in her chest the longer she looked at the chaos in front of the shop. This was looking too much like so many other crime scenes she'd witnessed in her lifetime. Steeling herself, she stopped just inside the blockades; one of the police officers watched them approach, and stopped them. Dixie showed him her badge. "I was called by a Detective Gorlomi."

"I'll take it from here, McGinn." An older looking gentleman said as he walked over wearing shoe covers and latex gloves. He was the detective that called her at the office. "Afternoon, ma'am; sir."

"What can you tell us?" Alfred asked seriously.

Folding his hands behind his back, the detective settled into a business-like stance. "From what we've been able to figure out so far, it looks like a robbery gone bad. Mrs. Hanzari says that a man walked into the shop, pulled a gun, and held it to her husband's head. She was too far away to hear what the man or her husband said. She assumed he demanded money and Mr. Hanzari said no, but within seconds, the gunman pulled the trigger."

Dixie's stomach jolted sickeningly; her jaw clenched. "And?"

Shifting slightly, betraying his discomfort, Gorlomi gave her an apologetic look. "That's where it gets strange, ma'am. The gunman pointed his weapon toward Mrs. Hanzari but didn't fire. He gave her a short, alpha-numeric sequence, turned, and left."

"And the sequence?"

Gorlomi fished out a piece of receipt paper with Louise's pretty, swirling handwriting on it. He offered it to her to look at: 324955N 854551W. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Shaking her head, Dixie mentally filed the sequence away. "No. I'd like ta speak with Louise, if I may."

"Sure. She's getting checked out by the EMTs."

Dixie nodded and slowly weaved through forensic scientists, MEs and police as she neared the ambulance circled by stiff-backed police, forming a barrier between the vehicle and the people standing behind the barrier like an audience with a warped sense of humor. Louise was sitting on the rear fender wrapped in a blanket and staring blankly at the ground. Her hair was falling out of its neat bun, and her expression was blank and lost, shining trails on her cheeks showed where tears had flowed. Easing down to sit next to her, Dixie put a gentle hand on her arm. "Louise? It's me, Dixie."

As though in a daze, the woman looked up, her eyes taking long seconds to focus on the blonde pseudo-nation's face. "Dixie, dear..." Her tone was almost puzzled, though faint and absent-minded. She was still very much in shock. "You...didn't bring little Stonewall."

"No, not today." Dixie braced herself emotionally. "Louise, the police told me what happened. You alright?"

"Malachi." The lost look dissolved into nothing short of despair. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. "He shot Malachi. He didn't even do anything wrong."

Willing herself not to cry or get angry, Dixie inched closer, gently wrapping an arm around her and gripping the woman's shoulder. "Louise, I know it's hard, but I need ya ta try an' picture the shooter. Can ya describe 'im?"

Head shaking back and forth, Louise tugged the blanket closer around her. "No, h-he wore a wooden mask. It looked like something o-off of a totem pole." That wasn't something you heard every day.

"Can ya describe the gun?"

She shrugged. "Big. Silver. Very noisy."

"Good." Dixie smiled encouragingly. "Let's see if we cain't narrow it down. Was it shiny or dull silver?"

Louise frowned in thought. "Dull. And...it was a revolver. I remember seeing the chamber move as he prepared to fire." She looked up as Dixie's smile disappeared, replaced with a scowl. "Is that bad?"

"It means there ain't no shell casings that can lead ta the weapon." Making sure she had eye contact, Dixie's expression settled into pure fire and steel. "Louise, whoever did this ain't gonna get off easy. You have my word. He’ll pay tenfold for what he's done."

Leaning forward wordlessly, Louise wrapped her in a hug that Dixie gingerly returned. They remained that way for a long moment before Detective Gorlomi and Alfred eased over, the former quietly clearing his throat. "I'm sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but I've been ordered to escort Mrs. Hanzari home. Officer Brandt will take you two through the crime scene, if you wish."

Dixie got to her feet, helping Louise do the same. "Y'know you can call me for anything, at any time, right? Anythin’ at all."

The smile she offered Dixie was wan, but sincere. "Thank you, sweetie." With her hand tucked into the crook of Gorlomi's elbow for support, the blanket left abandoned on the ambulance fender, she shuffled out of sight. Dixie watched her go, brows drawn together in concern and a growing feeling of fiery rage as she turned to follow the officer. 

Draping his bomber jacket over the back of a kitchen chair, Alfred kept his gaze on the blonde focused on feeding her dogs. Both had been extremely well-behaved since their mistress returned from the crime scene, staying close and quiet. Even now, they sat quietly on the floor, dark eyes following her every move. They could sense what Alfred could plainly see and read about what Dixie was feeling. Ever since she saw them wheeling away Mr. Hanzari's body she'd been tense, an unhealthy mix of rage and grief swirling in those dark blue eyes.

He watched as Dixie straightened to put away a cookie jar filled with dog treats she fed to each dog before petting them. "Y'know, you're one of the strongest chicks I know, but you can't tell me that what we saw today didn't get to you."

Dixie got even more tense if that was possible. Slipping off her jacket and hanging it up, Dixie walked towards him. "I said 'm fine, Sir," she snapped as she sat across from him with a pot of coffee out between them with the works on the table.

He rolled his eyes. "Dix, come on, bro. Don't lie." He reached out and put a hand on hers. "How're you holding up? Seriously?"

"I'm fine. Conflicted, mostly. Some kind a…complicated survivor's guilt."

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. "Hey, you've dealt with worse than this. You told Louise we'd get to the bottom of this, and that's what we'll do." He smiled. "If there's one thing I know, it's that you never ever cross Dixie without paying for it out the ass."

At last returning a genuine smile, Dixie pulled her hand out from under his to drink her coffee. "And if there's one thing I know, it's to not follow your example in how to deal with someone I track down. I ain't entirely sure I can pull off batshit crazy quite like you."

His eyes narrowed in mock anger. "May I remind you that you completely lost it when you thought I'd been killed on several occasions." The glare disappeared. "I guess neither of us is perfect."

"Course not." Blue eyes studied him for a moment before softening. "All the same, thank ya fer goin' with me. I'm sure it did Louise good to see another friendly face.”

"You'd do the same for me," he said gently. "I have to wonder why they chose Malachi though."

Shaking her head, Dixie dropped her gaze. "Wish I knew. He was well-liked, no enemies that I'm aware of, not so much as a parking ticket on his record." Abruptly, her brow furrowed. "He was also extremely well-informed."

"And he did recently pass information to you," Alfred said slowly. "Sensitive information. You think one of his sources could have done this?"

"Hell if I know." Dixie sighed and looked through her small stack of mail before abruptly freezing, her eyes wide. Her shoulders were high and tense as she opened a generic white envelope like his cat Cochise rearing up to fight when he first met Russia’s cat, Boris. He watched as her eyes darted back and forth across the letter and the color drained from her face. A shaking hand shot up to her mouth in what looked like horror. "Oh my god. This is my fault."

Alfred stared worriedly. "Come again?"

"His murder." She looked up to meet his gaze, faltered for a moment, then pressed on. "I...got him killed."

"How can you even think something like that?" Alfred asked incredulously, a note of anger rising in his voice. "Dixie, what's gotten into you?" he murmured, bright eyes searching her face for any possible clue. "You're starting to worry me."

"I haven't...haven't been entirely forthcoming with...certain information."

"Okay, information like what?"

She held up the letter. "I shoulda told you earlier, when it started, but ya had other things ta worry about an' I didn't think it’d get this serious-"

"Think what would get this serious?"

"While we were in Italy, I…got a letter. I dunno who sent it, or why; it just...rambled about how I'm good at my job and how I've caught this person's interest. I brushed it off as some kind of prank. I thought after the bombing that this was all some scary coincidence. Till now."

Alfred's already present frown deepened. "I thought you seemed preoccupied with that letter in the meeting," he muttered. "How does the letter tie in with all this?"

"This is...from the same person that sent the first letter. And who planted the bomb."

Al folded his arms across his chest. If this was true, then all the nations were in possible danger. It was enough to call a DEFCON2 and notify everyone. "Read it."

Dixie glanced up briefly in hesitation before visibly bracing herself. "'I'm incredibly disappointed in you, dearest. I thought you were a woman of high integrity, and here you are keeping secrets. I shouldn't have to tell you that communication is everything in your business. I'm giving you another chance to right this particular wrong because I’ve put a lot of work into our little game. I'm sure-" She broke off, staring at the words.

Alfred watched her closely. "What?"

Dixie dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "'I'm sure the dear old America, Alfred F. Jones, would be highly intrigued to hear about these letters. Just as I was intrigued to learn about of the burn on your pretty back.'" She looked up, found his eyes just as wide as hers, and went back to the letter. This was bad. Whoever this was knew who and what he was. They were too well-informed to not be considered enemies. "'Believe me when I say that I'll know whether or not you share this information and if you don't, it will spell an end not just to you, but him as well. Maybe even some of the other nations if I feel like it. I've waited long enough for you, dearest. You either play with me or watch everything around you crumble.'"

Alfred was silent for a long moment, thinking hard, processing everything the letter had said. "This puts us in a sticky situation."

There was mild surprise in Dixie's expression when she looked at him. "Did you say 'us,' Sir?"

"Yeah, I said 'us,'" he answered firmly. "The letter says he only wants you, but unfortunately for him, he gets me as well."

His eyes narrowed. "And I won't have you disputing that, understood?"

“Understood." Her expression was grave.

"Good. Now, I need to call the other nations and initiate DEFCON2. If he knows about me, I’m positive this asshole knows about the others.”

Chapter Text

After Dixie got off the plane from Tel Aviv where Malachi's funeral was held, Alfred took her home with him instead of taking her back to her apartment. At times like this, he feared leaving her alone for too long. He knew she'd considered suicide several times in the past even as a young child, and he wasn't about to give her an opportunity to go down that path again. She was too important to him. He couldn't lose her; it would kill him.

Alfred wasn't especially good at being gentle. It was a character trait that was all but useless to him. He had lived a life of boiling blood and battle and hard fights, and as a young nation, he didn't have the patience or temperance of others. Even when he found himself forced to get political-which was happening with fairly distressing frequency nowadays-Al found it easier to approach such matters by force of will rather than wit or cunning. He tended to throw himself into a situation with both feet. If subtlety was required, that was his boss' problem.

And then, somehow, despite his lack of gentleness or fatherly nature, Alfred found himself caring for children states, but they grew so quickly that he hardly did anything. Dinah was different. She was tiny and grew slower than even human children. She still had all her baby fat, appearing barely six in age. Alfred sometimes wondered if he was doing something wrong and it was stunting her growth, but he didn't dare ask for help from another nation. He wouldn't sink so low as to reveal weakness. Not so soon after his Revolution. One of them might try to take advantage of him.

It was easy to forget that Dinah was basically helpless. It still took him aback sometimes to realize just how small she was. Such a child should've been passing her days at play, but she had no friends, only a caretaker who was too busy defending himself from bad guys to look out for her. She was a nation—or state, he wasn't sure yet—with no name; alone in every way possible for one of their kind. All they knew was that she was a personification of something in the South, a place of rising contention.

"...all men are created equal..." That's what his Declaration said, and with a booming slave trade in the South, it seemed to be a contradiction to his nation's views. Many were beginning to call themselves "abolitionists", making it their job to be a hero and save the ones ensconced in shackles and treated like animals. Alfred agreed with his Northern majority, but he also knew what that meant for Dinah.

As a Southern personification, she could practically hear the hatred oozing from Northern tongues. She could see it when they heard her accent or saw her enslaved governess following her around through town. They would whisper and glare at the child like she was a devil. It was only natural for humans to do that. Nations embodied their land, so in despising the Southern parts of him, they also despised her, though they may not have consciously known it.

Al could tell the days were bad when she'd stay in her room all day, not eat or act a bit more skittish. Some might not even see that when she seemed so focused on the deceptive mask she was creating. She was still only a child, though, and no child had utterly perfect control over themselves. The way Dinah would carefully judge the reach of whoever she was speaking to and then place herself an extra step outside of it or the way she'd flinch when anyone reached for her were only two of her tells.

Even Alfred was no exception, a fact that left him ashamed when he remembered why. It had been in the heat of anger at finding his papers covered in drawings of two stick figures playing—something even he did as a child—when he lashed out and hurt the little girl he'd sworn to protect, and it left Dinah fully aware of what he was capable of. He sometimes had nightmares about the sight of her little legs kicking desperately in midair, and her grip on Alfred's hands that was so feeble that he could barely feel it.

There were meaningful ways to show Dinah she was safe in his presence now. They came on rare days when he could actually be there. Sometimes, merely being there was enough. Sometimes, when he came across someone harassing or threatening her, all he needed to do was clear his throat or ask what was going on, as though he didn't already know. That was usually enough to send them fleeing. Alfred, however, found that he preferred when her tormentors decided to get belligerent. That gave him all the excuse he needed to return the favor in spades.

"He's right, y'know," Dinah said quietly, watching the drunk slink off in defeat.

"He isn't," Al responded flatly, just barely restraining himself from following the bastard and showing him the error of his ways.

"C'mon, bubba," she looked up at him with a smile that was far too old for such a young nation/state. It was an old, tired, bitter, and above all sad expression that reminded Alfred far too much of Britain in those moments when he'd almost found his way back to the edge of madness when defeat was on his coattails. "You should know better than ta try an' lie ta me. It's alright, you can say it. I don't mind."

Alfred shook his head. He could feel a twist of something like dread in the pit of his stomach. He reached out carefully, ignoring the way Dinah flinched for the sake of ruffling her well-done ringlet curls. The gesture of affection briefly made Dinah smile, her face scrunching up in childish pleasure rather than distress. "Listen, those humans are just antsy is all. You'll grow on them like you've grown on me. You're one of my favorite people in the world." He smiled. "I couldn't be happier than to have you here with me."

"That's why ya should kill me."

Alfred froze, feeling as though he'd been run through with his own bayonet. The shock was all the worse because Dinah hadn't stopped smiling. Al knew he should do or say something to drive such mad thoughts from her head and make sure she never contemplated such a thing again. And yet Alfred found himself numb with horror. "What are you saying, Dinah?"

"What you said yerself. Both our lives will only get worse. I'll turn ta wickedness cause I'm evil like that man said, an' you'll have ta stop me...unless ya just end it here." She smiled. "It's okay. I wanna die. I wanna go in the ground an' sleep. I wanna have a pretty coffin an' wear that nice dress ya bought me for Christmas. I'll look pretty. Ya can even put flowers in too."

He hadn't even realized Dinah had taken one of his hands in both of hers until he felt his hand being tugged forward, moved and manipulated with small, slender fingers, to rest against her throat. Her attitude as she tried to wrap his fingers around her own neck was almost fussy like when he did something wrong. Dinah would huff, roll her eyes and insist on showing him how to do it the right way, except now she was trying to show him how to choke her and it was only then that full realization kicked in.

Alfred yanked his hand away as though he'd been burned, cradling it to his chest. Again, the memory returned to him, hazy from the cloud of rage that had descended over his mind at the time. "I said get lost, dammit! I should never have brought you in! You're useless!" he had shouted over the sound of her choking and the governess shouting for him to stop.

"Finish what you started, bubba," she said gently, drawing Alfred out of the memory and back to the present. Her voice broke, however, betraying her. A crack appeared in her carefully crafted mask of maturity and strength that hid the lost, hurting child beneath. "Do it. End it. End me. We can be happy then."

"No. God no." Alfred shook his head, reached out with shaking hands and pulled her into a tight embrace as though trying to shield her from the world with his body. She trembled like a frightened rabbit in his arms before something inside her broke and she gave in, wrapping her arms around him in turn. "No," he repeated like a prayer. "Please, Dixie, don't ask that of me. I couldn't."

"It'd be easy," she insisted around a voice choked with sobs. "I'm sure I'd die quick. You'd hardly even notice cause yer so strong. And I wouldn't blame you, not when I asked ya to do it. I'd rather it be you than anyone else; I know you'd make it quick. Please." She sobbed, the sound broken and painful as her grip tightened as much as her small, slight form would allow. Alfred could feel her tears soaking through the thick fabric of his suit. "I've tried ta do it, but I cain't! I'm too much of a coward ta do it myself an' too much of a coward ta go on, but yer so brave. I know ya could do it for me."

"You're wrong," he insisted. He didn't even try to push back the tightness in his throat or the stinging in his eyes. He cursed himself for ever letting it come to this. "I've always been a coward, but you...to keep going despite this pain...I can think of nothing braver or stronger." He pulled away just enough to press a kiss to her forehead and nose, taking comfort in what actions he could offer to soothe her when words seemed so insufficient. "I know the world's not pretty and it's been unkind to you...more than you deserve. But it won't always be this way. Please, don't let this keep you from a full life. I need you."

She stared at him, something desperate and strangely hungry in her eyes. Alfred was once again struck with the reality of how fragile she was, and how terribly unused he was to handling people who were fragile. He wasn't very good at being gentle yet. It was a character trait that was normally all but useless to him. There were, however, people who were worth the effort.

"Promise?"

Alfred knew that, whatever he said, she would believe him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong. Anything that went wrong, anything that hurt, would always be her fault before his. "I promise," he said solemnly. "On my life." And this time, when he reached out to rest his hands on her, heavy and warm and careful, she didn't flinch. Instead, she moved to hide in his arms.

When she asked very quietly if he would carry her, Alfred was happy to oblige. Her weight was so slight that he barely felt her in his arms, but he held on tightly and her whoop of delight as he lifted her was the most gratifying sound in the world.

There was no awkwardness about it. Dixie was quiet and dejected, hands buried deep in her coat pockets, shoulders slumped, birdcage veil drawn over her eyes. He hated seeing her like this. He took her coat and hung it up in his entryway as she padded up to his bathroom and shut herself in. She came back out wearing a pair of his flannel lounge pants and a borrowed AC/DC shirt. On her arm was her dual shoulder holster with both guns nestled in securely. He took that too, but he hid it away in his room. He watched as she sat on her favorite of his three couches. She seemed to relax, reaching to pull off her heels and dig her toes into the carpet. Cochise took that as the sign to make his grand entrance. He launched himself at Dixie, leaping onto her lap and rubbing himself all over her, marking her with his scent and swishing his tail happily. She smiled, and the sound of her quiet laughter was a welcome relief. He sat next to her and watched as his cat snuggle into Dixie's lap then turned to face him. Wait, what? Was Cochise smirking at him? It was probably just his imagination. He watched as Dixie placed her hand atop Cochise's head, stroking intently. His spoiled cat closed his eyes in contentment, purring as he did so.

Al's hand twitced and he felt a growing sensation in his stomach. Was it wrong of him to be jealous? Was it wrong that he, in some strange way, wanted Dixie to stroke his head like that too? To let him lie on her lap? He shook his head. What was wrong with him? How could he be getting jealous of a cat?! Then Cochise got up on his hindquarters and put his paws on Dixie's chest. He was kneading her breasts, and she was okay with it. Lucky fucking cat.

"So," she said as she sobered. "Why'd ya drag me here? Afraid I'll blow my brains out?"

Alfred winced at the very thought but dodged the question. "No one should grieve alone."

"Even if they wanna?"

Alfred looked up, his bright blue eyes meeting her dark ones. "Do you want to be alone?"

For a long moment, she was silent, just quietly petting Cochise as he burrowed his head just under her breast, leaning against her arm, but then she slowly shook her head. "No." There was such a sad, lonely look in her eyes. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her, to lie to her and say everything would be alright and it wasn't her fault. But he couldn't, because she knew just as well as him that the world wasn't a perfect place.

Dixie couldn't sleep. She stared at the dim white of Alfred's ceiling in the light of the moon, unable to sleep, thinking constantly about the fact that Malachi was dead. He was no longer going to banter with her or serve coffee, and it was her fault. She shut her eyes and tried to sleep as Cochise lay on her stomach, warm and solid and reassuring. She missed her dogs. New York was feeding them for her, but he didn't care for them like she did. They were like children to her. Alfred wasn't going to leave her alone though. Her idiot was persistent. Yes, hers.

She'd loved him for years. She didn't hide it or flaunt it. It was simply a part of her, as much as her limbs, her head, her heart. It was there, and she suspected that everyone knew, but hopefully they too saw it as just a part of Dixie: nothing strange, nothing grand, just her. As she lay on the couch, she imagined living there permanently, perhaps as a spouse. They might as well have been. She'd been by his side for centuries, serving him, protecting him, loving him. She spent more time with him than a wife would, that was certain. She drank with him, laughed with him, mourned with him, killed with him. She was more a wife to him than any other woman could ever be. Yet he seemed barely aware of her dedication to him.

She sat up when she heard feet. Alfred was suddenly plopped down in front of her on the floor. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, switching it to a classic movie channel. Twelve O'Clock High with Gregory Peck was playing in black and white. He really was quite a looker and so handsome to look at in that Air Force uniform. It reminded her of Alfred's Naval Air Force uniform. The movie was actually one she enjoyed. It was the first movie to show the effects of PTSD realistically, and it had no music. Still, why was Alfred watching it in here? He had HD TVs in every room including the bathroom.

"What're ya doin', Sir?" Her voice cracked from lack of use.

"Watching TV. Don't worry about it, just get some sleep."

Dixie rolled over, making Cochise groan as he readjusted to lay where her legs met the couch. She stared at the fabric of the couch for a while but was unable to sleep. She couldn't quit thinking about Malachi and how his death was all her fault. He died for such a trivial reason. He died just so a lunatic could prove a point to her. It wasn't right. Why couldn't they try to kill her instead? She was the one who had supposedly wronged them. She felt so alone right now.

Silently, Dixie shifted her arm back behind her and found Alfred's hand, weaving her fingers through his without making a move to turn and face him. He didn't even hesitate to gently squeeze her hand and shift his arm so she was more comfortable. Please, she thought to herself or perhaps was praying, just let me have this one moment of comfort. It would be okay to break the rules and cross the boundary. Just this once. She needed it. She needed to know she wasn't alone.

"Dix?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Anytime you need me, just call my name." Dixie thought he never sounded more like a superhero in all his life.

Chapter Text

Arthur ignored the ringing telephone in the main room; ninety percent of the time, anyone calling after hours was just one of the nations calling to bug him or those bloody salesmen. He had other things to do, like finish up his needlework project for the month and tasting his new tea sample from one of America's companies: Earl Grey Crèmè. He was skeptical and mostly wanted to shove it in the lad's face that he still couldn't make a decent tea after all these years. Take that rebellious little shit!

"Hey, Arthur!" Flying Mint Bunny yelled from the next room. "It's Alfred!"

So it was a ninety percent call after all. "Leave it!" he shouted back.

"He left a voicemail!"

Now that was unusual. If ever Alfred called, he was usually quite persistent. He never left anyone voicemails; instead, he just kept calling until the person answered the sodding phone. Once, Arthur was woken up at three in the bloody morning by one of those calls. Arthur let him have it that time. Leaving a message likely meant it was serious. Arthur abandoned his fresh cup of tea and went to retrieve his phone from the couch where Flying Mint Bunny was watching Top Gear. Arthur grabbed the phone and retreated back into his tea room and put the phone on speaker to listen.

"Hey, man, guess who." Sure enough, it was Alfred, but his voice was all wrong. It carried no trace of childishness or humor. It was actually quite serious. Something was wrong. Arthur fought the urge to actually get worried about his former charge and start looking for flights. "I know you're probably busy, so I'll keep this short. I'm holding a secured web conference with the others in like thirty minutes. It's about the bombing. I can't go into any detail." He sounded like he was worrying over several different things all at once. "But nation personal securities could be compromised all across the board." With that, there was a click from the other end of the line, and Alfred was gone.

"What's that mean?" one of the pixies asked as she nibbled a store-bought biscuit off his plate.

Lip twisting, Arthur locked his phone. "Well," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "There's definitely something bugging the lad. He said something about concerns over personal security...which can only mean someone's coming after one of us."

It wouldn't end well for whoever it was. Say anything you liked about the nations, but they took care of their own. Technically they were all distant relatives since everyone had the same origin: Pangea the All-Mother. If someone was coming after a personification, you could bet your life savings that most of the other personifications would come out of the woodwork to protect them.

Flying Mint Bunny folded his arms as he floated into the room. "Not exactly the smart thing to do, given what you're capable of. Though I suppose America and Confederacy have their share of enemies."

"Especially them. Confederacy in particular. Alfred just annoys the shit out of everyone; Dixie is the one with a death wish."

Hook cocked his head, watching his former captain, Arthur, closely. "Yeer tinkin' sometin'; what ees eet?"

"Something I'll regret later."

Alfred locked the door using a thumb print scan and ocular ID. He was in a conference room five floors under their office. He only called this conference with the G12, Israel, Egypt, Spain and a select few others. He excluded flight risks like Italy and a majority of the Middle East and the Nords. He was only telling the ones he trusted. Dixie was sitting out holographic monitors in front of him as he sat in his own chair. As soon as he sat, the seat lit up and a menu popped out of the armrest.

"Please state your name and identification."

"Alfred Franklin Jones. Code 0001."

"Audio identification recognized. Prepare for ocular scan." Alfred removed his glasses as a dot appeared on the screen. A flash of light temporarily blinded him. "Welcome, America. Prepare for holoscan." Alfred sat back as the chair scanned his entire body down to his feet. This is what the nations would see in their secure conference rooms. "Entering call session."

Alfred watched as Dixie turned down the lights, hit a switch that put reinforced steel over all the walls and sat down in a chair next to him. Her own chair lit up under her and asked for Dixie's name. She had no identification because she wasn't technically considered a human or personification. Instead it just asked for an ocular scan and hair sample with her name.

"Dixie Winthrop Bohannon." She too leaned forward for the test and then offered a hair follicle.

"Welcome, please wait to be scanned."

Once it scanned her, all of the other chairs starting beeping to life. Arthur was the first and Germany and Israel were second and third. The others poured in. Once everyone was present, Alfred locked the call so no one could eavesdrop or hack into the call. He watched as the others did the same. Many of them looked put off at being disturbed from their daily routines. Alfred tried to make the call at as opportune a time as possible, but what could he do?

"What is meaning of this, Amerika?" Russia inquired. "What is so important that I must come to Kremlin in early morning from Volvograd?"

"It's about the bombing. At first it seemed like a coincidence, but new information has come to light."

"Which is?" Arthur snapped.

Alfred looked over at Dixie. She clutched that letter in her shaking hands, keeping her eyes downcast. She looked up then and took a breath, the mask covering up any obvious fear. "Someone is coming after me. A former nation or tribe. We know this because they're old enough to know my...original name."

"Which is what exactly?" China asked.

"I ain't tellin' you that."

"Careful Confederacy," Russia warned. Alfred could see Dixie's rage building up under her neutral expression. "It is sounding like you are needing our help. Talk nicely, da?"

"Anyway," she growled through her teeth. "They also know America's human name." The nations tensed in unison. Alfred would've laughed if the circumstances had been different. If someone knew his name, they likely knew everyone else's. "After the bombing, they also murdered a civilian informant which means our entire intelligence network could be compromised."

"Which is why it's even more important that we keep what happens here to ourselves," Alfred chimed in. He knew how some of them were with their bosses. For a while, there was just silence.

"Agreed," Israel spoke out, pulling a burping rag off her shoulder and throwing it out of view. "If our bosses get word, it could mean war. Humans can't be trusted with this matter."

"But we have duty to our people," China snapped. "Sure you capitalists can keep secrets, but we communists are for da people."

"Give it a rest, dude. We all know commies are the best at secret keeping. Especially from their own people."

"Meine Frau is correct. Zis should be dealt vith by nations only."

Several others were in agreement, but then Russia chimed in: "So what is it you ask of us?"

Alfred paused. "I'm asking you to help me protect Dixie and get rid of this guy."

"Nyet. She is no longer nation and not our concern. You decided to keep her alive, so she's your responsibility." Alfred saw Dixie shift from the corner of his eye. "If that is all, I am signing off."

"Dude, aren't you the least bit-"

"I'm sure you can handle problem. You call yourself 'hero' after all," he said as he signed off and his chair went dark.

This was what Alfred had been afraid of. Dixie didn't make friends well. She had very few friends, and she made up for it in enemies. Enemies like Russia and some of the others present. Egypt, Japan and China signed off too, some giving excuses and some being honest. Soon it was just Artie, Francis, Mattie, Germany, Spain and Israel. Everyone else had run off either because of hate or cowardice. Not heroic at all. Even a hero like him, a superpower, helped enemies when he could. He looked over to check on Dixie. Her face was neutral, but her eyes held a light that told him she'd be going to the shooting range later.

"So what do we know?" Arthur asked, getting down to business.

"What we know fer certain," Dixie said, bringing herself back on track. "Is that someone out there is very interested in me, fer some reason. This person also knows our human names and my original one."

"Is there anyone you know that might do this? If you have suggestions, it could provide us with a lead to start investigating."

Dixie sighed. "Any of the Native American tribes or Middle Eastern countries."

"I'll handle the investigation of the Middle Eastern countries," Israel chimed in. "I'll have the IDF and Mossad notify me personally of any mentions of Confederacy or the bombing," she said calmly as she typed away at something the scanner didn't pick up.

"I know some of ze tribes personally. I'll ask around," Francis said.

"If needed, I'll send mein bruder to protect Confederacy."

"I ain't in need of security."

"No offense, but zat isn't your call, chérie. Besides, I don't think 'e will be too put off to 'elp you."

"Romano just volunteered as well," Spain said looking off to the side.

"He's listening?" Alfred groaned. "What happened to confidential, dude?"

"Fuck off, Americano! Dixie, if I see you again, you better bet I'll-a be kicking your ass for not telling me!"

Suddenly, a screen call popped up in front of Dixie. Everyone stared at it like it was one of Artie's psycho delusions come to life. This call was secured. No one short of the highest US officials should've been able to get through. This was an unknown caller. Dixie was just as perturbed and accepted the call. She was met with a black screen instead of a face.

"Hello there, dearest," a robotic voice asked. Someone was typing the dialogue into a synthetic voice program. Dixie tensed up like a coiled snake, likely aware of everyone watching her.

"You could at least gimme a chance ta acknowledge ya first," she snapped. "That's the way this works: I say hello, then you say it, an' then ya tell me who the hell's callin'."

"Ah, how very witty and astute, my dear. However, I prefer we break from tradition."

Unimpressed, Dixie folded her leg over the other. "Fine, have it yer way. Do I at least get ta know to what I owe the pleasure a this call?"

"Of course, dearest. I have...information on the bombing in Italy and on the murder of your little human friend. I believe you've concerned yourself with that, yes?"

Instantly on high alert, Dixie sat straight and rigid. "Yes. When you say information, you mean you witnessed these events?"

"Yes."

Everyone was listening closely.

"I don't suppose you'd be willin' ta give me yer name?"

"Of course: Andrew Jackson."

Dixie visibly flinched. A pen in her hand snapped, gushing ink down the side of the chair. Alfred frowned. Hadn't Jackson taken care of her during and after the War of 1812? He thought of her as a daughter. Hell, she got her current personality from the man. Dixie loved Jackson to a fault like Alfred did with his first boss and war buddy, Washington. Now someone was tarnishing his name. He understood her feelings perfectly as he was sure many others did. They all had a human they cherished.

Swallowing hard, Dixie forced her voice to remain calm. "You'll have ta try again. I ain't believin' that bullshit."

"After all the things I've done, you still don't believe me? How about I impress you. You don't have many friends, but you are good friends with three people in particular: Mathew Williams, Gilbert Beilschmidt and Romano Vargas. You used to be lovers with Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. Do I have your attention now?"

"How do you know all this?" Dixie growled.

"Do you want the information I have or not?"

He could see Dixie's jaw clamp as she gritted her teeth. "Yes, but I'd also like ta know how an' why the hell you have all this intelligence. Some a this the President don't even know. An' while we're at it, maybe ya wouldn't mind explainin' why ya insist on using my adoptive father's name."

"We're not going to get very far today; I see that now. The man who killed your friend was me. I paid Italian neo-Nazis to place the bomb. Told them a few Jews would be working that day."

Germany and Israel in particular seemed to tense up. Everyone was on edge as the computer voice continued to talk. He could even hear Romano swearing from behind Spain.

"Was it now. And how do I know ya ain't faking? From where I stand, ya seem prone ta lyin'."

"Oh come now, dearest. I've only told one lie in this conversation today. No more, no less. Though if it'll take another display of truth...I know that your former Constitution is on your back, and I know that instead of killing you like he should have, America and Lincoln chose to burn you instead. And look where it got him. Assassinated with the help of-"

Dixie cut off the call, pressing a button harshly before yanking her hand away as though burned. Her face remained blank as she sat there for a few moments before exiting the call and retreating to a corner where Alfred and the others could no longer see her. For a while, everyone seemed to absorb the new information.

"I'll be in touch guys."

The man stared at the wall only a few feet away, a blissful smile on his face as he replayed the tape of his conversation with Dixie on the recording device in his lap. He had done it; he had found what she feared most besides losing America. Dixie Bohannon, the former Confederate States of America, feared her own past. Or more accurately, feared that past coming back to haunt her, feared it destroying everything she had worked to build.

The tape cut off as she abruptly hung up. Almost regretfully, he trailed a finger along the jawline of the picture of her in the necklace he'd taken. "You really do have a lovely voice, my dearest," he said softly. "Even distorted through modern electronics. However, I still prefer hearing you in person. It gives me chills thinking about it."

Of course, in the past two days, since he had installed the bugs in her apartment, he had heard far more of her voice than before. He even heard her once pleasuring herself in the shower. He still had the recording tucked away somewhere. He reached for the papers set to one side of his desk, studying them almost lazily. Black strokes of ink slashed viciously through fifteen of the twenty-one names listed, holes peeking through the paper where the pen had pressed a little too harshly. The freshest stroke appeared through the words Malachi Hanzari. The name "Dixie Bohannon" was circled in red.

"It's decided, my dear," the man murmured fondly. "I'll save the best for last. Consider it an honor."

Dixie sighed tiredly as she removed her clothes and threw them in the hamper. She needed a long, hot shower to ease away the aches in her body from sleeping on Alfred's couch. As soon as the water hit her skin, she felt at ease. She could relax there in the water where time seemed to feel suspended. After washing her hair and body with lye soap, she just rested her back against the tile wall. Then the memory of that night in the back of the SUV came to her.

She could remember the strength in Alfred's arms as he pushed her down into the seat. Dixie experimentally slid her hands up her arms and squeezed. A chill shot up her spine. Then her mind began to supply fantasy after fantasy. Suddenly, Alfred's mouth was everywhere, his hands roaming. She could imagine them making out in the elevator and pressing each other into the walls as they made their way down the hallway. And then they were inside the room, and Alfred slammed her against the wall, grinding his erection into her. There was no Britain, no France. Just them. Dixie shivered as she raked her nails lightly over her nipples at the thought. Soon enough they were naked and entwined on the bed.

Dixie's hand sank lower, grinding her clit between her fingers and making herself moan. She imagined it was Alfred, and he would talk fitting to her.

"Gonna fuck you," he would growl in her ear, his voice low and throaty. "Gonna fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk. Until you feel me inside you all day." Dixie moaned as she pressed a single finger in, imagining it was his tongue flexing and swirling around inside her. Dixie moaned, gasped, her hips jolting up without conscious thought. And then he would suck on her swollen clit. Dixie cried out as she pinched her clit harshly. Her fingers spasmed every so often as a wave of pleasure overloaded her nerves.

"F...fuck, oh fuck, Alfred, yes, please, oh..." she panted, arching her back and screaming as an intense orgasm wiped her mind clear of thought.

When she came back to earth she was in the shower, and Stonewall was whining and scratching at the door. With a sigh, she stepped out and wrapped herself in a huge beach towel. She could see Stonewall's nose and paws sticking out from under the door. As soon as she started opening it, he slid in and started looking around before scratching at her legs, wanting attention. It wasn't Alfred's love, but it was enough.

"C'mon, let's see if there's somethin' good on TV."

Chapter Text

The door of Dixie's apartment slammed so hard it shook the doorframe. Stonewall flailed and fell off the couch with a yelp and landed on Ulysses. It would've been comical if she weren't so pissed. Dixie leaned back against the door, feeling only minor relief from the tension riding her shoulder blades and back of her neck. Even shutting the door with such force only did so much to dull the rage that had been roiling in her gut.

"Dude, you just about hit me in the nose." Al's voice sounded through the door just above her head, causing her to grit her teeth.

He was in full worry mode and had barely moved more than a foot from her side since she'd hung up on her mystery caller. It was suffocating. She loved Alfred more than she could fathom, but having him fuss over her like this was enough to make her want to shoot him in the kneecaps and make a run for one of the borders.

"No offense, Sir, but I can handle this on my own," she answered, not moving from where she barricaded the door. "Go home. You need rest."

"I could say the same for you," he retorted. "Come on, open the door." Silence held for a pair of heartbeats, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Dixie, let me in. This won't go away by not talking about it."

"It'll go away when I track that idjit down an' drag him ta hell by his fuckin' entrails."

"It'll be kinda hard to do that from a safehouse, won't it?"

For the space of a breath, she was motionless, processing what he'd just said to her. Then, in a blur of motion, she whirled around and yanked the door open, teeth bared and eyes feral. Alfred flinched at the wide blue, angry eyes in front of him, shifting to stand straight now that there was no door to press his ear against. "A safehouse?!" Incredulous, Dixie could only stare. "You mean ta tell me-"

Ducking under the arm she held across his path to get into the apartment, he turned and closed the door. "Yes, a safehouse. Please tell me you can understand why I'd want you there."

No response.

"D'you know what it'd do to me to lose you?" he half-whispered.

Dixie's expression dropped from rage to surprise. "So ya wanna lock me up instead?" Her shoulders lowered. "I need ta be part a this. I ain't gonna just sit an' let other people do the work. Not for my sake." She shoved past him, moving towards the stove. "I got a job ta do." She could practically feel his eyes following her as she filled a kettle with water from the sink, returning it to the stove and igniting the burner beneath it.

"It's clear this guy has more than one screw loose," he said as he walked into the tiny kitchenette. "The others were right; he's bad news."

Dixie lifted herself onto her toes to reach the box of mint teabags on the top cabinet shelf. She set the little box down and pulled a pair of mugs from the drying rack beside the sink. She put three bags in the boiling water and put the lid on. Then she grabbed the sugar container and put a teaspoon in each cup. She put a few ice cubes in each mug and added a half glass worth of whiskey to the mugs. It was her recipe for mint julep. It was a calming ritual for her, and Alfred knew better than to stop her.

"I don't wanna make this into an argument, Dix," Al said, voice low. "I'm only ordering it because I wanna keep you safe."

"Yer orderin' it?!" she repeated, every syllable deliberate and thickly accented. Her eyes narrowed, lips setting into a firm line, her hands clenched at her sides. "A minute ago you said ya only wanted me ta hide, now yer orderin' it?!"

Something dangerous sparked behind those bespectacled blue eyes. "Damn right I'm ordering it, because it's becoming apparent you're not going to go otherwise!" He crowded her against the counter slamming his fist into the cabinet just above her head. "Dix, I'm just thinking about your safety! If this guy can track you down across the world and at what's supposed to be a top secret meeting, then we have to assume your apartment is easy for him to find!"

"An' if he even tries comin' here lookin' fer me, he'll find me waitin' with a loaded fuckin' gun!" she shot back, shoving him for emphasis. "I ain't a little girl anymore, Alfred! I can look after myself!"

His teeth gritted visibly. "Damn it, Dixie, cut the act! I know this has you thrown off! The way you bailed out of that conference made it pretty fucking obvious this psycho has gotten to you on an emotional level! I just wanna make sure he doesn't succeed on a physical level."

"I'm telling you, he won't!"

"Bullshit! You can't promise that!" he got up in her face again, redder than his flag.

"You cain't stop me!" Dixie snarled right back.

The whistling of the kettle made them both stop and remember where they were. The dogs were both nearby growling at Alfred but staying away. Dixie shooed them, took the kettle off the stove and took a step back. She filled the mugs and sat them both on the table. When Dixie turned, she saw that Alfred's eyes had gone cold-a look she'd seen very rarely. It was the look he got when he knew he had to do something he didn't want to. It sent unpleasant thrills through her gut. It was uncommon for him to use that particular brand of glare, and it could only mean he was dead serious...but so was she.

She had only just started reaching for a chair when the phone rang. A chill shot up her spine. Surely he wouldn't call again after such a short amount of time. Not at her house. She stepped to the telephone on the counter, picking it up on the third ring with violently shaking hands. "Hello?"

"Is this Ms. Bohannon? This is the West Wind Vet Clinic."

Dixie instantly relaxed. After the last call she'd received, it was good to hear a friendly voice. "This is she."

"I'm calling to remind you to schedule a neutering appointment for...Stonewall."

Alfred listened to the conversation just long enough to understand she wasn't talking to her stalker before putting his plan into motion. Leaving his cocktail on the table, he headed to the bathroom, keeping half an ear on Dixie's conversation.

"He's almost six months. Yes, he's up to date on his shots. Sure, what days ya'll got open?"

Alfred quietly closed the bathroom door behind him. Hopefully whoever was on the phone would keep her occupied long enough for him to put his impromptu plan into action.

She's gonna kill me when she figures it out.

Dixie wasn't the type to have packets upon packets of medicine in her home, but the ones that she did have would serve his purpose. Searching quickly, he found what he needed, palmed four of the tiny white tablets and slipped the rest of the bottle in his pocket. Glancing at the door, he flushed the empty toilet, waited a span of five heartbeats then slipped back into the main area.

"I understand that, but I can only bring him in after three," Dixie was saying patiently, one hand resting on the counter. She didn't even look as he re-entered. "Can you keep him overnight and do it that mornin'? I'll pay the extra kennel fees."

Alfred crushed the tablets in his palm and dropped them into her cup, glancing her way to make sure he was unobserved as he did it. If she caught him in the act, their little spat a few minutes ago would seem like a pleasant chat in the sunshine. She may actually shoot him.

"Okay. So Wednesday the fifteenth?" She took down a brief bit of information on the pad beside the phone as Alfred settled into his chair. "Alright. Thanks."

She hung up, tore the piece of paper from the pad, and moved to take her seat at the table. Her eyes remained firmly on the wooden surface and specifically not on him. His eyes followed her as she took a long drink from her mug, her gaze far away. Good: it meant she wouldn't be looking at any little bits of pill that might still be in her drink.

Clearing his throat to dispel the awkward silence—something that hadn't existed between them in years—Alfred made an attempt at diplomacy even if it wasn't always his strong suit. "You know...we could set it up so that Prussia could stay with you until this is over," he said casually. "It doesn't get much safer than that outside of an actual safehouse."

The look she gave him was enough to kill roaches and disable nuclear warheads. "I don't think both of us would fit in this apartment, Sir. It ain't exactly spacious."

"Dix, I'm trying to make it work for both of us."

"You're trying to make it work for you," she snarled. She dropped her gaze to the tabletop again, taking another long drink.

"I'm not doing this because I'm trying to keep you from helping. I just don't want you getting hurt."

Her only reaction was to take another sip from her mug; again, his eyes followed the movement, noting that her eyelids were beginning to look heavy. That was really fast. Slowly, her lips left the rim of the cup, blue eyes staring into it with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity. "Wait a minute...what's-" Her gaze widened, swinging up to him. "The hell did you do ta me?"

"Dix, it's for your own good." She got to her feet, one hand on the table for balance, and he did the same. "I know, it was sneaky and underhanded and I'm sorry, but believe me, it's going to be better in the long run."

She turned to face him, eyes open halfway, fury peeking through the lowering curtain of sleep. She pulled her gun and aimed between his eyes. Shit. "Of all the...Why would...How could you?" Dixie leaned too far forward, and overbalanced, taking two staggering steps right into his arms.

"I know," he murmured into her hair, one hand on the back of her head even as she squeezed his neck. "I'm sorry, and I swear I'll make up for this." Leaning back, he moved his hand to her chin, fingers tilting her face up. Her glare had lost its heat, her dark blue eyes soft and her mouth open just the slightest bit.

"Dix, I can't lose you." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing.

Leaning back against the counter, he wrapped both arms around her, holding her to his chest, with his face buried in her hair. He didn't know how, but he had to make her understand. How much was she capable of understanding right now? All he could do was hold her and try to pour as much of his protectiveness, guilt and love into the space between them as he could and hope it got through. His brow furrowed, and he hugged her tighter. It was the truth: he couldn't go through something like that. He couldn't lose her. All the times she was called his 'babysitter,' or someone referred to her as 'bodyguard,' were times when people had lied. No one except him knew she was his lifeline.

Her breath was soft on his neck as she sighed, still fighting to stay awake. "Fuck you, America."

Dinah was sitting on the edge of the porch, scowling moodily at the grass that sprouted around her, trying to ignore the breeze that plucked at her skin. She drew her knees to her chest, peeking over her folded arms to glare at one of the oak trees that towered at the edge of the yard. A heavy thump drew her attention, and she turned to find that someone had ventured onto the porch behind her: General Andrew Jackson. He had taken her into his home after he found her half dead trying to wander as far from Fort Mims as possible after all the things that happened. He was the one who finally got her to open up to him.

He was a man in his later years with red and grey hair and bronzed skin that spoke of hours on the battlefield. Crow's feet lined his eyes, but it was probably from an excess of scowling rather than smiling. She never saw him in a delighted mood unless he was with his wife. He was an intimidating man, to be sure, but Dinah was never one to be cowed by others. There was a long silence, punctuated by the shuffling sounds of Jackson shifting his weight. He sounded uncomfortable, but Dinah wasn't about to concern herself with that. He'd made the decision to come out here after all. Finally, he crossed the porch to sit next to her. She scooted over to make room and smooth down her skirt, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him.

"I'm not gonna say sorry, or anything like that," he said gruffly. She did look up at that. It was the first time someone had said anything like that to her, and strangely, it sounded better than any sympathy others had tried to shove onto her. "Because you don't need to hear it," he continued. "It won't help you. This, however, might," he said as he dug around beneath his jacket. It was a pistol.

It looked comically small in his huge, calloused hand. The steel gray muzzle winked brightly in the sunlight, and though Dinah knew she should be frightened, she wasn't. Jackson, for all his gruff and bluster, was too well-known for that. She looked down at the gun, then up at him. "How's that gonna help?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

His chuckle was rough. "Whenever I feel angry and frustrated, I often find that target practice helps me feel better."

"How you know I'm angry?"

He gave her a sharp look. "You just lost everything a girl can lose and then some. You're angry. You're angry and upset and grieving."

She didn't ask how he knew, but his words had her softening. "I've never shot a gun before."

This didn't seem to faze him. "Everyone has to start somewhere." He stood up and tucked the gun back into his jacket. "Now come on, I'll take you out back and show you."

She nodded and stood, taking his hand instinctively. Neither of them spoke as they walked through the waist-high grass beyond the fence. Soon, a sturdy little shack emerged from behind a copse of trees, and he led her to a door. A rack of muskets hung on the right wall, and it was this display that Jackson went to first. After carefully scanning the collection, he selected one from the bottom and pulled it out, along with a box of musket balls.

Dinah frowned. "I thought I's gonna shoot the little one. Why'd ya get the big one?"

"Pistols are harder to handle when you're small," he answered. "It's easier to start with a musket in a sitting position." He stopped by a bench facing a wooden board nailed to a tree with three colored rings on it. "The first thing you oughta know is how dangerous these are," he said seriously, looking her squarely in the eye. "Don't ever point 'em at someone. Don't point 'em at the sky. It goes off by accident, you can hurt someone. Got it?"

Dinah nodded.

He picked up the gun and pointed out the different parts, showing her how to load it and how to balance it on a surface. She crouched behind the bench until the gun was rested in the middle of the bench and fit against her shoulder. He had her look down the sight and pretend that she was firing at it.

"Remember to keep your breath even," he said, his rough voice tickling her ear. "People wanna seize up. That'll make you miss. You gotta breathe steady, then fire when you breathe out. Practice."

Dinah did as he said, finger tugging at the trigger. She imagined a hole appearing in the target right where she wanted it, and soon, pretending wasn't enough anymore. She pulled away and looked up at Jackson. "Can I shoot fer real now?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "I think you're ready," he reasoned. He plucked a ball from the box on the table and loaded the gun. After propping it back up, he took a few steps back. "Take your time."

Dinah looked down the sight again and carefully nudged the rifle a little to the left. Her body quivered with anticipation, but instead of letting the bullet loose, she took a moment to breathe, allowing the tension to drain from her body. She forgot about the attack, she forgot about her big brother Alfred who abandoned her, she forgot about everything except herself and the trigger. Her shoulders loosened as her finger tightened, and on her next exhale...

Crack.

The butt of the gun recoiled. Dinah pulled back and looked up at Jackson for his approval. He nodded at her and jerked his head. "Well, go on. See how you did."

She didn't need to be told twice. She sat the gun down carefully and ran for the target. As she skidded to a stop in front of it, her mouth split into a wide grin. The hole was just inside the center circle. Heavy footfalls crunched behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Jackson staring at the target, disbelief plain on his face. He blinked once, twice, then rubbed his jaw. "Damn."

Her smile grew even wider. With shooting, it was all about control and precision, something she'd been sorely lacking. When she held a gun in her hands, she told the bullet where to go. She held the destruction in the palms of her hands, until it no longer had any power over her.

Chapter Text

The man roared.

This couldn't be happening. All his planning, all his anticipation and all his efforts had been blocked by a single move on the part of his opponent. Pausing in pacing the floor, the man glared at the radio receiver on his desk; the silence coming from it was deafening. His prey was gone, had been for the last four hours, and it looked to remain that way. He had listened, rolling his eyes as America apologized profusely for whatever he'd done. Judging by the cabinet sounds from the bathroom microphone and increased drowsiness in his quarry's voice, it was likely he'd drugged her. He whirled on the balls of his feet and viciously punched the wall next to him. His rage subsided into the pit of his stomach, leaving a foul taste in his mouth, and a throbbing in his knuckles.

Lifting his hand to his face, the man studied the new lacerations as they began to ooze blood. This new development didn't mean an end to his operation. Roadblocks could be run, and obstacle courses could be conquered. Ms. Bohannon would be his, he vowed, tongue sliding from behind his teeth to lick his wounds.

Alfred watched from his hiding place in the doorway as Dinah slowly pulled on his blue military coat and hat. She'd seen him put that thing on thousands of times in the past five years, and she'd be asleep when he did it again tomorrow morning. This Revolution was a long uphill battle, but he'd lasted this long and he wasn't about to give up a chance at freedom. He could practically taste it like he could taste gunpowder on the battlefield. He watched as she pulled his belt over her chest like a sash. It was long past her bedtime when he tucked her in, so what on Earth was she doing up looking so serious? Sure, she was always a bit serious and choleric, but not like this. He watched as she tried to put on his much larger boots and snorted, giving away his position. Dinah flinched and turned at the sound with wide, dark blue eyes. Her face turned bright red as she attempted to hide in his clothes that made her look tiny.

"H-Hi," Dinah stuttered nervously, standing embarrassed in the middle of her caretaker's room wearing parts of his military uniform.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Gotta wear this."

"You have to wear my uniform at night? In the house?"

"Fer battle."

Alfred knelt down and readjusted his hat on her head so it didn't block her eyes. "Who are you battling?"

"There's wendigos under ma bed," she whispered, eyes wide. "Come kill 'em for me?"

Alfred pressed his lips together to keep himself from grinning and nodded. "Now that's serious. We haven't had wendigo here for a long time. Little girls need to wear protection."

"Here." Dinah held out his hat to him. "You need dis."

Alfred smiled and settled it on his head before scooping her into his arms. "You wanna stay up high so the wendigo can't sneak up on you and nibble your toes?"

Dinah nodded, and Alfred hefted her up to clamber onto his shoulders. Once she had a firm hold around his chin, Alfred began the slow walk to Dinah's room.

"Under there!" Dinah's voice was barely more than a squeak as he opened the door, and Al crouched so she could climb from his shoulders to the mattress.

"Okay, you stay up here and keep watch. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."

He bent and pressed his cheek to the floor, making scratching notices as he searched. "Oh hey, I found the heel you lost this morning."

"The wendigo eated it."

"Uh huh," Al said dryly. He knew she hated those porcelain shoes France had brought over with him during his latest trip. He had her in them when he got her dressed for breakfast that morning, but sometime after that they vanished and were replaced with pale bare feet. He made more scratching and hissing noises.

Dinah screamed, and Alfred heard her climbing up one of the bed posters. "Kill it! Kill it wif fire!"

"Die beastie!" He reached under the bed and made banging sounds accompanied by dramatic death throes and squeals from the monster. He withdrew his hand and brushed it off on his pant leg as he sat up to look up at Dinah who had managed to nearly reach the curtain rungs on her bed.

Her eyes were locked on him. "Dija kill it?"

"Yup. He's gone." He sat on the edge of her bed and patted his thigh. Dinah inched down and crept forward until Alfred could pull her into his lap. "I'll always keep you safe from monsters. You know that right?" he said, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls. "That's part of the reason I'm fighting this war. I have to keep you safe. Make sure nobody tries to take your freedom." His hand moved in small circles across her back.

"You can beat anything. You beat all the monsters."

"I did, and I will always be looking after you. Now, why don't you get back under your covers, and I'll tuck you in."

"C-Cain't I sleep with you?"

Alfred paused only for a moment. It'd be hard to sneak out in the morning if she was in his bed. Then again, he wouldn't see her again for another week. In a week, he'd be in Washington's camp. He had the help move her around the country often. He didn't want his enemies—namely Britain—finding out where she was. He'd already failed miserably at keeping her identity a secret.

Dinah's eyes widened and her face, usually consumed with a frown, split into a grin. She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck and bounced in Al's arms. Alfred chuckled and ruffled her hair as he carried her back to his bedroom and sat her on the edge of his bed. He took his uniform off of her and put it back on the chest at the foot of his bed, leaving her in one of his old nightdresses that England had made for him years ago when he was still that tiny.

"Alright, pull the covers back," he said gently.

He watched her crawl under from the foot of the bed and slide up to the pillows like a snake, her hair spreading out in gentle waves of pale gold. He turned his back, slowly removing his shirt and pants, careful to watch the healing infection just above his hipbone. As soon as he was down to his undergarments, he slid into bed behind Dinah and blew out the candle. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her hair and smiling as he felt her press her back against him and curl her toes against his abdominals.

But then she rolled over to face him…

Her dark blue eyes met his, but instead of them being sleepy and innocent, they were pain filled, terrified. Suddenly, she was several feet away and much older. She was wearing a Confederate uniform, but it was covered in muck and blood. The bandages on her throat were black with aged blood, dirt and sweat. A few curls were stuck to her neck from where they escaped her hat. This wasn't Dinah. This was Confederacy…Dixie. Her eyes were wild, ferocious and deadly. They were cold and ruthless. The eyes of a killer.

She was still so much younger than Alfred, just a child, but she'd caused so much pain and suffering. It was surprising how, in the beginning, she had been beating him, the hero, without any training at all in the art of war. But America had come back, crushed the child who called herself the Confederacy, but he hadn't been able to move quickly enough to prevent her from escaping his grasp. So Alfred had started the chase. While in the past he had fought then retreated, he didn't pause now, didn't pull back. He chased the Confederacy with everything he had.

"A-America." She stuttered as she stared at him in shock.

He glared darkly. "Dixie, this is the last time I'm chasing you around like this. Surrender."

She shook her head. "No! You ain't won yet."

"Yes, I have." But even before the words left America's mouth, she had run at him, slicing his cheek open as she took off at a run to get away.

He caught up to her though, grabbed her by the arm. Alfred snarled as he turned her to face him. Those dark blue eyes suddenly widened in shock as something warm oozed over Alfred's hand. He felt like he left his body at that point. He was seeing this from the sidelines. Horrified, he watched as blood oozed from her gut and she exhaled a mist of blood.

"Oh," she breathed, red stains blooming on her lips as blood bubbled up and tainted her teeth. "That was...well done…brother."

Alfred watched in horror as the thing in his body grinned and jerked the knife up in a sawing motion. Dixie screamed and gripped his hands, staring at the sky with glazed, unseeing eyes as she tried to stop his hands from continuing their torture. Alfred watched as his hands reached in and dug around after tossing the knife away. Dixie's legs kicked out as she gasped and squirmed until he made a jerking motion. Her whole body froze and all the air left her in ne final, bloody breath. Her hands fell to her sides and her head fell to the side limply, her eyes wide and scared, pleading with nothing. Then his body turned to him with her dislodged heart in hand. His eyes were wide, challenging him, as he lifted it to his mouth and bit in, consuming it in huge bites. Her blood dripped and oozed from his mouth as he grinned at him.

"I'm whole."

"Dixie no!" Alfred flailed in his bed, breathing heavily. He pressed his lips together, choking down the sob that he wanted to let loose as tears filled his eyes. Sweat stuck his back to the sheets, yet he felt cold. The shiver that ran through him had nothing to do with the temperature.

One breath.

Another.

Anything to calm himself down. Sometimes it was hard to separate the dream from the here and now. He had nightmares all the time. Most of them were memories but...sometimes his mind liked to fuck with him. Warp his memories. Sometimes they were warped into good memories, like marrying Dixie like he wanted when Lincoln first proposed not killing her. Or having Arthur or Francis raise him and Mattie for just a bit longer. But none of his dreams were as haunting or repetitive as this particular nightmare. It was the same one, again and again. He usually had it three or four times a year, and it fucking terrified him.

It scared him how close he had come to killing her all those time before in real life. That could've been real instead of some fucked up nightmare. The thought of that blank, wide eyed stare made him want to puke. What scared him most was when he said "I'm whole" every time. Like he needed it to make his problems go away. And that look of bliss as he...as he ate...

When she came to, it was to soft whining and something warm and wet stroking repeatedly across her neck. Dixie scowled, and rolled away, snuggling deeper into her pillow. Behind her, the moment she moved, there was a long, old-man grunt.

She moaned under her breath. "Ulysses, shhhhhhh. Not now. I'm-" Abruptly, her memory resurfaced and Dixie bolted upright. Fight-or-flight instincts screamed at her from every direction, her head swiveling side to side in a threat-evaluation exercise firmly embedded into her memory. Nothing but the bed, sunnily orange walls, and her dogs met her searching gaze, causing her panic to fade into confusion.

Slowly shifting to sit cross-legged, Dixie reached out, scratching under her eldest dog's chin. "Thanks for the wake-up call," she murmured, blinking to dispel the fog that threatened to creep back over her. It was the same feeling as waking up after an un-needed nap. Wait...she'd fallen asleep...drugs in her tea...Alfred.

"That motherfuckin' son of a bitch!"

Rolling off the bed and landing smoothly on her feet, she took a deep breath, letting her anger build in the center of her chest. Hands balled into fists, she stalked towards the door and yanked it open with far more force than necessary. She made no attempt to keep her steps quiet as she descended the staircase, one hand on the wall for support. Movement sounded from the room she was descending into, and she lifted her chin in defiance. "Alfred Fuckwad Jones, of all the hare-brained, lowdown things you've done, this hasta be the most-" Stopping on the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she broke off mid-rant as she caught sight of the person standing there. "Gil?"

"Vassup, Dixie?" The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Damn, America told mein awesomeness you'd be pissed, but holy scheiße! You sleep vell?"

Dixie huffed. "As well as a drug-induced nap can get," she grumbled. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the weathered hardwood floors, overstuffed sofas, and a book on the coffee table. "Is he even here?" she huffed cattily.

"Nein. Vant a beer?"

"Y'know I don't drink that rotgut a yers."

"You don't know vhat you're missing. Ah, well, more for me."

Taking the last two steps down onto the living room floor, Dixie moved to sit on the couch opposite Gilbert with Ulysses hot on her heels. As Stonewall moved to climb into Gil's lap. The dude was a softie around puppies, and Stonewall knew a sucker when he saw one. "If ya don't mind my askin', just how did he wrangle you inta babysittin' me?"

"Vest told me about your little friend, und zat's all I needed to know. Honestly, I'm still pissed zat you didn't tell me sooner. I thought ve vere friends."

Dixie frowned. "We are. It ain't ya'll's business is all."

"Even you know zat's a fucked up lie."

"Is not!"

"Oh yeah?! Look at me und tell me again."

Shit. That was always her tell. Dixie looked away from the fellow former nation's harsh glare. "America also asked for me specifically because he knew you vould be pissed and ven you woke, none of the states vould dare get in your vay." His head tilted curiously. "How did he manage to drug you anyvay? Last time I tried to slip you some ecstasy just to make you loosen up, you stared at the drink I gave you und bruised mein family jewels."

Her lip twisted. "A package a sleeping pills in ma bathroom. Every so often, I'll get insomnia, and I'd rather take medication ta help me sleep than stare at the ceiling fer hours on end." Leaning back in the soft cushions, she smiled grimly. "He's clever, there's no doubt 'bout that. I don't s'pose he left a message?"

"Ja, he asked me to tell you zat vhile you're here, all safehouse procedures are to be observed. You do not go outside vithout an escort, you do not leave vithout permission from him only, und the telephone is for emergencies only."

"Of course he'd say that," she grumbled, diverting her eyes to the rug. At the back of her mind, she pondered just how angry it would make Alfred if she were to disregard his instructions. Served him right after what he did.

Chapter Text

Alfred watched as Matt's sharp purple eyes scanned the letter sent by Dixie's stalker. Artie and Francis stood behind him, reading over his shoulder like the two snooping parents they always had been. Where Mattie and Arthur's expressions were carefully neutral, Francis' was nothing short of alarmed. "Merde," the eldest nation murmured. "I knew she 'ad enemies, but...rien cette mauvaise."

"Use English, frog. No one here understands your snail slurper's language."

"I do."

"Same here, dude."

"Shut it, bloody prats! I'm proving a fucking point here!"

"Be quiet, rosbif."

"If the letters didn't specify otherwise, I'd think this was an attempt to get to you through her," Mattie said almost silently. Alfred wanted to hook his brother to a lapel mic so he could actually hear him better. "But whoever this is, it's clear that she and she alone is the one they want."

"And this is all that he's written?" Arthur asked. "It sounds oddly intense for a first communication."

Before he could answer, Louisiana Purchase walked in followed by Texas, each carrying three massive boxes that they sat on the coffee table. Huffing once under her breath, Louisiana Purchase stretched her back, wincing as it cracked noisily. "Got 'em all, dad: anything mom worked on or personally oversaw." Her eyes slid towards the boxes. "I didn't realize there were this many."

"Quoi? Je croyais ton Papa!" Francis whined as he neared his former charge with his usual dramatic flair. "Don't be so cruel, Colette."

"It's Cosette now, you piece of shit," Louisiana Purchase snarled, taking a few steps away. She had never forgiven him for selling her out to America during the War of 1812 and abandoning her to fight Arthur by herself. "I'm going back to the archives, dad. I don't want to breathe the same air as this fucking cocotte."

Francis sighed as he watched her march off angrily. "At least she still remembers French, non? Mostly anyway. I...don't know why she'd call me casserole," he laughed awkwardly.

"That's Cajun," Texas supplied with a chuckle as he went to follow his older sibling. "She just called you a cunt. See ya, pops!"

Alfred smirked and shrugged out of his bomber jacket, rolling his sleeves up as he went. "I think the best way to do this is to go through every file and see if we can find any dumbass that might have reason to go after her. It's not the most interesting way to spend the evening, but I'd rather have answers at this point." Taking one of the boxes, he settled cross-legged onto the floor and set it at his right. "Let's get to it."

The others followed his example, getting comfortable however they saw fit next to a designated pile of paper. "You never answered me, git," Arthur grumbled as he eased himself onto the floor beside the coffee table like the geezer he was. "Were there any other letters? Christ, it's like talking to a squirrel."

"Uh...I think she mentioned she got one more. Here, at the office." Setting his handful of files aside, he got up and crossed to her desk.

No letter on top of it—of course not, she wouldn't leave it out in the open—and none in her trash. His eyes went to the drawers, mentally checking off what he knew she kept inside them. The one that sat over her legs held office supplies, three gun clips and one semiauto. On the right, at the top, was where she kept gun maintenance supplies and a few tins of dog food and treats. The next drawer down held current files, never more than two weeks old, and contact information. The bottom drawer was almost always empty, except for spare clothes in case she was here all night. And when he pulled it open, resting on a neatly folded black shirt, was an envelope with 'Ms. Dixie Bohannon' typed across the front.

"Son of a bitch," Alfred breathed, lifting the envelope from its hiding place. "Sent it to her right under my fucking nose." Pulling the folded paper from inside, he quickly scanned the words written there, brows drawing together more as he read. "keep the token I've enclosed..." Token . . . what token? Looking up, he gave her desk another glance, seeing nothing that was unusual. Pulling the open edges of the envelope apart, he peered inside at the slim, burnt corn leaf sitting in the bottom. "What the-" He reached into the envelope, drawing the leaf out between his index and middle finger.

Mattie giggled as he read one of his own papers. "I think this has to be the only speeding ticket she's ever gotten. It says she was going a hundred and thirty in a school zone."

"What's a school zone's speed?" Arthur asked curiously.

"Twenty-five."

"Christ, what was she trying to do, break the bloody sound barrier?!"

"More than likely, she was in a hurry to bail Al out of trouble for the billionth time," Mattie remarked, already having moved on in his sorting.

Francis held up a report. "I found a notice of intent to press charges," he said.

"That's the start of the 'possibles' pile, I guess."

"I've got nothing," Arthur put in, shaking his head as he set three files in his own "cleared" pile.

Then he noticed something on the floor by Dixie's chair. It was a small scrap of paper with a code on it. They looked like coordinates to somewhere here in the states. He grabbed his phone and punched in the coordinates: 39-01-25N 87-47-57W. Shit, it was Fort Mims.

That could only mean that...Creek nation was behind all this. That son of a bitch! As if raping and scalping Dixie wasn't enough! He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Why hadn't he seen it?! He was sloppy, stupid. A mental picture of that innocuous dried leaf flashed through his mind: the Battle of Burnt Corn Creek. That creep was the stalker, had to be, even if the evidence was just a bit too circumstantial. He had motive, certainly had the means, and he'd had an opportunity up until she'd gone into the safehouse. Shit, he needed to get ahold of Prussia, warn him and Dixie.

"ALFRED!"

Alfred spun on his heel to respond to his name. Everyone was staring at him worriedly. "What?"

"You just broke your phone with your fist. Again. What happened?"

Al looked at his clenched, bloody hand covered in chunks of iPhone. Damn it, that was his fifth one this year! Huffing, he wiped the glass off on his pant leg and let his hand heal on its own. He was pretty sure Dixie still kept his spare somewhere in here. That wasn't the important thing though. "I know who did it, and it's someone we know."

"You could've saved us all this time looking through your paperwork! Who the bloody hell is it then?!"

"Creek nation."

"Quoi? Menewa? 'e's supposed to be dead. Dixie killed 'im during Tallahassee according to what ze other tribes told me. And based on what zey told me, it was very graphic and drawn out."

"I thought so too but...no one else fits. He knew her original name, sent coordinates for Fort Mims, sent a burnt corn leaf. He definitely has a motive. He was always obsessive and a bit...off in the head since the Red Sticks formed. It all fits."

Mattie shifted, still seated cross-legged on the floor. "Maybe...maybe one of us should go to the safehouse, for extra security." He frowned. "Where is the safehouse anyway?"

"Close by, and that's all you're going to find out about it," Al snapped with a little more acid than he intended. He glanced over in time to see Matt flinch slightly. "Sorry, it's just...the fewer people that know where she is, the safer she'll be."

"Mathew has a point too though," Arthur put in. "What if you're incapacitated and we need to find her? Besides, letting Prussia watch her isn't the smartest choice. That bloke is probably drinking and watching porn on pay per view."

"Fine. I'll tell you where she is. She's-"

"Dad," Texas poked his head in.

"Yeah."

"We got a situation," he said worriedly. His accent was thicker and his words slower than usual.

"What is it?"

"I tried callin' mom but...the line's busy. We've tried callin' her several times."

Alfred's brow furrowed. Something was wrong here. "Did you trace the call?"

"Uh yeah, it's to Haifa, Israel."

"Perhaps it's Prussia checking in on his belle-sœur?" Francis supplied. "She is pregnant after all, and there 'as been a lot of terrorist activity. I know he and Germany both keep a close eye on 'er since she lost ze last one."

"Then why'd he use a landline?" Texas questioned. "That definitely doesn't make any sense."

"Shit, Tex, go down there and see what the hell is going on. Make sure no one's watching the place and shit."

"On it!" Texas nodded as he hastily walked to the office door.

"Take a gun!"

"I'm Texas, dad. I always carry a gun."

Let me make this clear, in this universe, Creek nation wasn't always an evil psycho. I'm not trying to hate on the Native American tribes. He became that when many of his people formed the Red Stick Creeks in the early 19th century. They were against assimilation and took to terrorist activities to show their distaste unlike the rest of the Creek who were actually quite peaceful and even helped the Americans stop the Red Stick faction. However, by this time, the personification was already too far gone.

Chapter Text

Getting from her room to the telephone in the kitchen had been easy; Dixie had simply waited until Gil had fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs before sneaking down from her room. She had played the part of a good house-arrestee since waking at nine, and now, at eleven with her bodyguard snoring quietly while Busty Hungarian Babes was playing, she put her personal plan into action. Feet bare, she eased down the stairs, walking on the raised edges to either side to avoid creaky steps, her hands braced on the wall for balance. She peered cautiously around the edge, studying the sleeping form of her prison guard. He lay on his back, legs sprawled in two different directions and hands folded atop his stomach with a beer between his hip and the couch. Stepping off the stairway edges, she slipped noiselessly past the small landing and down two more steps to the living room floor.

She ducked into the kitchen and pressed her back against the wall, listening closely for any change in Gilbert's breathing. Two heartbeats...four...six. After ten, she let out her breath softly through her nose, and nodded in satisfaction. Phase one was complete. Gliding across the floor to the telephone mounted on the opposite wall, she lifted the receiver and tucked it beneath her ear and shoulder. Careful not to make too much noise, she entered the number and waited, listening to it ring.

"Ahalan?" a sleepy voice asked in between yawns.

Keeping her voice to a whisper, Dixie sighed in relief. "Good, yer home. Israel, I need help."

There was sudden alertness and worry in the nation's tone. "Ma karah? Chara, s-sorry, too early for English. What you are needing?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's not that kind of help." She winced, wondering if the other woman's concerned tone was audible outside of the phone on this end. "Just keep your voice down; I'm...not exactly swimming in phone privileges."

There was a pause and then a snicker. "What did America do: ground you?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I'm at a safehouse, and I'd really rather not be. But that's beside the point."

"Right. You need my help." She could practically hear her crawling back under her sheets. "What's going?"

"Do you know where that call came from in the conference?"

"The trail went cold somewhere in...Abalama?"

"Alabama. Where exactly?"

"Tensaw."

She froze. It had to be him. It couldn't be anyone else. Creek nation was alive and watching her. Of all the things to go wrong, that was definitely in her top five. He could get as close as he wanted to her or to Alfred. That also meant...he'd followed her all the way to Italy. He had probably been watching her and following her everywhere. She wasn't safe. He'd always find her if she was alive. She needed a weapon. What if he knew she was here?

"Dixie? Hey! You still there?"

She jumped, suddenly remembering the telephone in her shaking hand. "Sorry. Just...got ta thinkin'."

"Anything else?"

Dixie breathed deep, glancing toward the door to the living room. "I...need you to search all databases from 1540 to now under the name Menewa. Anything from historical mentions to bank accounts or scraps of paper in the trash."

"Just Menewa?" she asked, sounding confused. "No last name?"

"He'll have changed it yearly. He's too arrogant and proud of his culture to change the first one though."

"Got it." Dixie heard Germany sluggishly in the background. Israel muttered something in heavily accented German before returning her attention to the phone call. Something about herself and why she was calling at such an indecent hour. "I'll get to it...shit, well, maybe after I get Berlin up. The joys of motherhood, yes? Kol tuv."

Hanging up, Dixie breathed a shaky sob, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Her head came up sharply at noise in the next room; within a split second, it was made painfully clear that Gil was getting up. Dixie grimaced, moving swiftly and silently around the counter, crouching out of sight. Footsteps entered the kitchen, there was the clink of a glass being taken from the shelf, and water ran from the faucet. A moment of the quiet sounds of drinking, followed by a second clink as he set the cup down. Dixie tugged her knees tighter against her chest, praying that her short stature would hide her sufficiently.

She was still holding her breath when he lumbered from the room, and the springs of the sofa announced that he was preparing for sleep once again. It took half an hour for the average person to fall into Stage Two sleep, but fifteen minutes would be enough for the Gil to doze off sufficiently for her to sneak past him. Until then, Dixie had nothing better to do than sit and ponder what fate Creek nation might be planning for her. It was enough to cause a clammy sweat to cover her skin and make her whole body shake.

The fifteen minutes were almost up when light from a car passing on the street tracked across the wall. Dixie's eyes followed it as she got to her feet. She froze when the light stopped, the sound of an idling engine coming from outside. Three seconds, and that disappeared, along with the light. Someone had just parked outside the house. She kept her eyes on the window, hand drifting slowly to her side, reminding her with a flash of annoyance that Alfred hadn't seen fit to leave her a weapon.

Stealing silently across the floor, she crouched beneath the window, peeping over the sill at the car parked in the street. Too dark to tell the model, let alone read the plate or identify the person getting out of the driver's seat. She could tell with growing unease that it was male. Her fingers searched out and found the loose floorboard beneath the window, pressing hard on one end. It clicked then edged upward as she moved her hand away. Prying it open, she removed the handgun hidden there with a sly smile. So Alfred hadn't given her one of her usual weapons, but he hadn't thought to clean out the safehouse. Ducking back beneath the sill, Dixie edged out of sight before heading for the front door.

Every little sound seemed magnified in the profound silence. Her own breathing seemed to echo in her ears along with her speeding pulse. Crouched, her back braced against the wide wooden jamb of the archway into the front hall, Dixie held perfectly still, ears picking up the soft clicks and grinding of metal on metal as a key was inserted in the lock. Something was wrong here. If the mysterious visitor was breaking into the house, there would be far more clicks, less of the grinding noise, and more of a tinkling of thin metal sticks? In a word, lockpicks. That he had a key possibly meant someone with approved access to the house.

Rising from her crouch, gun raised and held ready to fire, Dixie stepped out into the hallway just as the newcomer opened the door. "Hands on your head," she barked from the darkness.

"Wha — Mom, it's me! Don't shoot!"

Dropping her gun, Dixie rolled her eyes skyward. Texas. The adrenaline-fueled pounding of her heart subsided to something normal. "Dammit, boy, you got some nerve not callin' ahead when yer approaching a safehouse. Do you realize I almost shot you?"

"We tried!" Reaching behind him, the tall, beefy tan man shut the door and turned the lock. "The line was busy, so we figured something had happened or someone was making a call."

Prussia did a front flip from the couch to stand in front of her. "Stand aside, Dixie! I'll deal vith zis intruder!"

"You're a little late, Gil," she bit out in annoyance. "It's just Texas."

He visibly relaxed. "Zen vat ze hell is ze meaning of zis? You're supposed to call before —"

"We tried to call three times before dad sent me over!" Getting exasperated, he planted both hands on his hips. "For the last time, the line was busy." His eyes shot towards her in an accusing glare. "And I think I can guess why. You just couldn't keep your nose out of it, could you!"

"Fuck right, and I don't need ta be mollycoddled."

"Maybe so, but at least Creek nation can't get to you here!"

Dixie stared, the heat dropping out of her gaze faster than any bullet she ever fired. Her breath caught in her lungs, air refusing to enter or leave until at last, she forced herself out of her surprise. "So I was right. It is him."

Texas took a cautious step. "Yeah."

"Who?"

"I didn't think it would be this hard," Al muttered, only half to himself. "There's only so many places a guy like that would try to hide."

"Unfortunately, the number of places is anywhere between fifty and one hundred and thirty," Arthur answered, chin propped in one hand at Al's desk. "There must be an easier way to track him than simply canvassing the city."

"Not without getting more humans involved."

Suddenly the door slammed open. Four heads came up around the room to find Dixie bringing her foot down from a kick with Texas and Prussia behind her looking guilty. She looked ready to commit mass murder or genocide. On her heels was Ulysses and Stonewall who hurriedly ran to meet the new faces, oblivious to their master's rage. Alfred started walking towards her, his own temper rising along with the tension in the room. Dixie marched forward until they were only inches away.

"You shouldn't be here, Dix," he said, voice low.

"But I am." Her eyes were like molten venom, daring him to open his mouth. He hadn't seen her this pissed in years, and if he wasn't angry too and the target of such wrath, he'd be insanely turned on. For a moment, there was a terrible, interminable silence, the two of them simply staring at each other, both refusing to back down. France warily looked Arthur who was watching the two, green eyes darting from Dixie to him and back again. The other three remained perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.

At last, his voice shattered the quiet. "If you don't mind, Bohannon, I'd like a word with you. Privately."

"Of course. I was going to insist on it." Taking a step to the side, she gestured to the door. "After you...Sir."

He stalked from the room, with her following at his heels, both still clearly internally furious. For the space of three heartbeats, the room was deathly quiet, before Prussia blew out the breath he'd been holding, shaking his head in resignation. "She's going to kill him."

Menewa jolted awake at the sound of banging from the receiver across the tiny room. Sitting upright in the small cot, he held still, holding his breath as he listened for a voice.

"You shouldn't be here, Dix." America, his tone full of dark warning and disapproval.

"But I am." She'd returned. His prodigal Confederacy had returned. Getting up from the bed, the creak of noisy springs drowning out the rest of her sentence, Menewa grinned broadly. He should have known she wouldn't be able stay away too long. He settled into the desk chair, smiling at the little speaker.

"Come on, America," he cooed at the receiver. "Tell her who's after her. I want to hear it. I want to hear that weeping."

"If you don't mind, Bohannon, I'd like a word with you. Privately."

Menewa slouched, shaking his head. "Ah well. Another time, perhaps." His smile reasserted itself as he folded his hands behind his head. "Sooner than you think."

Hebrew Translations in order: Hello?, What's wrong? Shit, Goodbye

Chapter Text

He slammed the door behind himself, having already held it open to admit his seething bodyguard. Dixie stood near the polished conference table, arms folded and her back to him. Her posture was rigid and her shoulders rode high in angry tension. She could practically feel his glare boring into her back as she glared at the wall with murderous intent. If he so much as breathed on her, she was going to fucking kill him.

"Where did you get a weapon?"

Shit. "I have my sources." She didn't turn. "Where you wanna start this free-for-all?"

Giving her a dark look, Alfred circled so he stood in front of her, drawing himself up to his full height, making her look tiny. She hated it when he did that sort of shit. "We might as well start from the beginning. You wanna go first?"

His only warning was the angry flash in those blue eyes before her fist shot out and connected with his jaw. Damn, that felt good. Her eyes sharpened as adrenaline coursed through her. As soon as his glasses had fallen off, she punched him just below the eye, making him stumble and trip over his feet. This was actually fun! She hadn't gotten to truly put hands on him since the Civil War. "Drugs in my drink?! That's whatcha stoop to, just to get your own fuckin' way?! You rotten, Yankee son of a bitch!"

"If you had gone along with it, maybe I wouldn't have had to!" he shot back as he stood, gingerly touching his cheek. "Instead, you were so focused on getting even that you were blind to the danger!"

She snarled, glaring up at him through the fringe of her hair. "That's a fool's bet, Sir. Further proof that yer an idjit ta think I'd stay put."

"You watch your tone with me, Confederacy. I put you in that safehouse once, and I can do it again."

"I'd like ta see ya fuckin' try it!" she challenged, putting her hands on her hips.

He took a half-step closer, hands lifting to grip her shoulders. "And I can't be expected to let you just throw yourself into harm's way! You may not like it, but there's a method to my madness, and that method happens to be making sure you don't get yourself killed!"

"You cain't guard me twenty-four-seven."

"You're being self-destructive!"

"It's called self-preservation!" The heat in her gaze flared as her chin came up in defiance. "Why the hell are you so god damn ready to jump in and save me?!"

"Because I love you, you selfish dumbass!" There was a beat of silence as what he said sank in. Alfred paled and Dixie was in total shock, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. Did he…? Surely not. He didn't think of her that way. He would never say that to her...not her. She had already prepared herself for spending her life alone. There was no way...

Before she could speak though, ask him to repeat himself, his lips were on hers with an almost brutal force. For a few blank seconds the world reeled and time stopped. She heard him right. This was wrong...so, so wrong. This would effect everything. But then again it felt amazing. No!

Dixie smacked him, parting their lips and making them gasp for air. She then noted guiltily that Alfred looked hurt, dejected. As much as she wanted to make distance between them, she knew she couldn't now. Not after experiencing what she'd fantasized about for centuries, and definitely not after looking into those sky blue eyes and seeing that intense sadness on his face. He started to withdraw, but Dixie stopped him by gripping his chin between trembling fingers and pressing her lips to his.

His reaction was almost instantaneous, typical of his personality. He was always so quick to jump in head first to anything new. He pulled her close as their lips molded together and slid against each other as they turned their heads for different angles. Dixie could feel the slow heat building in her chest and began pressing against Alfred with more urgency, sliding her hands up along his thick, corded arms to his neck, tangling her fingers into his wheat blonde hair. She jumped up and he caught her, helping her hook her legs around his waist, just above his hips so she could brush her ass over his erection. He wrapped his arms around her, keeping a steady hand on her lower back as he held her close and ran his tongue along her bottom lip, grinning as his tongue darted out to twist with hers.

Alfred melted into the kiss, feeling as though his whole body was dissolving under Dixie's fingers. He gasped as her nails gently scraped his neck. Afraid he'd drop her, Alfred sat her on the conference table. What he hadn't expected was for her to start laying back, pulling him down along with her until he was forced to crawl up on top of her if he wanted to keep his tongue in her mouth. They fell into an entangled, horizontal position, kissing themselves nearly breathless, bodies moving against each other as they shifted to give each other access. Alfred moaned as Dixie's cool, trembling hands followed his treasure trail up past his navel as he slipped his hands up the soft skin of her abdomen before grabbing the gun in her waistband and sliding it across the table and out of her reach.

Alfred pulled away to stare at her flushed skin and swollen lips. Fuck, she was gorgeous. He started unbuttoning her vest and blouse before pulling it open so he could look at her, at all the scars that made her what she was. He pressed his hips against hers, loving the way her shivering body felt against him. His lips moved down her jaw until he reached the scar on her neck. The sound that came from her was something between a moan and a melodious chuckle. She was squirming against him, making him buck against her shifting hips.

"Ticklish?" he chuckled, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.

"Fuck I hope not," she moaned as she sucked on his earlobe, making him shudder and grind against her like a stag in rut. "I don't need you using it against me."

Alfred shifted down on the table, bending his head to kiss the scar lightly with reverence then moved to kiss and tongue the swell of her breasts that peeked up over her plain beige bra. He was rewarded by her soft intake of breath and the brilliant feeling of fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him in closer to her warm skin. Alfred began to work his way down, laying paths with his tongue, tracing the dip of her navel as his hands reached the waistband of her slacks and smoothly undid the fly. He sat up to tug both her slacks and unsexy boxers down past the swell of her hips, unconsciously biting his lip as she was revealed to him. His ragged breath became even more uneven as he audibly swallowed. This could be his only chance. If he backed off now, Dixie may never let him get this close to her again. He wanted to make the most of this, so he took a deep breath, licked his lips, and bent his head.

But Dixie stopped him. With a huff, she pulled his face back up to hers and kissed him again. "Sir-"

"Alfred."

"Alfred," she breathed against his mouth. Alfred shuddered at the sound of his name rolling off her lips. It sounded better than he could've ever imagined. "Just fuck me."

Alfred pulled away, head spinning. "W-What?"

"I don't need foreplay. Just...just you and me."

Blushing, Alfred was wordless, just wide eyed and gaping like a fish out of water. This far surpassed anything he could conjure up in any fantasy or wet dream. In his fantasies, his mind always jumped straight into sex. He never even considered Dixie meekly asking him to be intimate with her with a pretty pink blush dusting her chest and cheeks as she averted her gaze. It was wonderful. Better than anything his mind could ever imagine. After this, sex with anyone else would seem lackluster.

When Alfred hesitated, Dixie pulled him down a little closer, flush against her. "Please."

Alfred gasped, afraid he'd blow his load in his pants. How could she be so fucking adorable and sexy at the same time? It was sinful. "God, you're not being fair talking like that," he purred in her ear between sloppy kisses as he pulled his pants down enough to pull his cock out. "Gonna fuck you so hard you won't be able to leave that safehouse. Make sure you're too sore to get outta my reach ever again."

He swore he nearly came when he heard a mix of a whimper and a moan escape her. Unable to take not touching her, Alfred leaned in for another kiss as he knelt between her legs. His breath caught when Dixie reached down and took Alfred's cock in her hand, pumping it twice before rubbing the tip along her slit, arching her back in invitation. Alfred let out his breath as he positioned himself and then with a push, he was inside Dixie.

He kept pushing in until he saw her start to grimace. "Need me to stop?" he asked, peppering her face with kisses.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," she hissed. "It's just...been a while."

"I'll go slow."

"No. Just...just make it fast."

Alfred nodded, his chest swelling when she blushed a deep red in what he assumed was embarrassment. Then he pulled back slightly before pushing his hips forward until he was buried in her heat. The fit was snugger than he'd experienced in a long time, and the heat was radiating through him.

He was still for a moment, just wanting to look at her so this image never left him. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

Flushing, Dixie dropped her gaze and gave a slight shake of her head, and then she shifted her hips. Alfred gasped loudly and fell on to his elbows over her, not wanting to crush her with his weight. He could feel her squeezing and rippling around him as she entangled her legs with his. The touch and heat transmuted into a pleasure that melted Alfred in its wake. He began caressing and kissing her, sucking her tongue into his mouth to join his. He shifted forward to reposition himself, finding a new angle as he began thrusting. When he pushed back in, it was pure bliss. Being encased in the warmth that made his cock twitch. His pace picked up, losing his concern for discovery as he began to thrust recklessly into the warm body in front of him. His breath became ragged and came in harsh pants. His fingers dug into the soft skin of Dixie's plush hips

"Don't stop," Dixie begged. "Please don't you fucking dare stop."

But Alfred came right then, shooting off deep inside Dixie, a cry escaping his throat. "Shit. Fuck, Dix, babe I'm sorry. I guess I got a little excited."

Dixie laughed breathily. "That's okay. God, that was amazing. We can finish later at one of our places."

Alfred frowned as he pulled his sagging erection out and started tucking himself back in. They needed to get back to the others so as not to raise suspicion. "You're still staying at the safehouse."

Dixie, who was slipping on those boner-killing men's boxers, turned to glare hatefully at him. "Cain't we come to a compromise? What if I'm allowed to work under guard? That means twenty-four hours a day, for as long as it takes."

Al paused, his gaze slipping off to the side as he considered her offer. Knowing her, she'd keep escaping if he didn't let her help, but something inside him didn't sit well at the idea of her being involved. Involvement meant Menewa had access to her. Then again, if he did agree, that meant more sex. His dick and his brain were in full on battle rage mode. "I don't like it."

Ire blazed in her eyes again. "With all due respect, Sir, this obsession of yers with protecting me is becomin' downright smotherin'. We ain't gonna get anywhere if something doesn't give! You'll keep shutting me away somewhere, and I'll keep finding a way to escape."

For the briefest of seconds, he almost pulled her to him and kissed her again. That fire in her eyes, the vehemence in her tone, the way her body seemed to practically bristle with fury—it was all fuel on the fire. His urge to protect her as someone who had come so close to losing her in the past was what had driven him to force her into the safehouse to begin with. Now as her lover, that urge was even stronger. He didn't want her out of his sight. But Dixie was a fighter. She wouldn't have survived all those shit storms they'd been through otherwise.

"I don't like it," he repeated, watching how her eyes narrowed. "But I'm willing to make it work...under one condition."

She watched him, on high alert, until he cracked a hint of a half-felt smile. "You've always watched my back. It's high time I watched yours."

Dixie looked away and nodded. "Agreed." She paused then added: "Sorry for...punching you...and smacking you." She was back to her business-like facade, but he could hear her affection under that southern drawl. At least she hadn't called him "Sir".

"It's in the past. Let's head back in there before they come looking for us."

When they re-entered the office, it was to four apprehensive glances and one cry of "About time!" from Prussia. It was then that Alfred noticed Francis' eyes widen. He could tell he knew what they'd been up to. Of course he would. Alfred glared at him darkly enough to make the nation shut his mouth...for now. The news was secret and safe and hopefully would remain as such until this whole mess blew over.

Chapter Text

"Right now, Dixie, out with it!" Alfred's voice was low and dark with annoyance. He jabbed an emphatic finger at the table between the two of them. "Who's this source that you're getting to play hacker? Was it the one you called in the safehouse? I need to know."

"Someone we can trust." Was her calm answer. Stonewall sat in her lap, her fingers scratching behind his ears though her attention remained on the fuming nation stomping around his large kitchen. Ulysses and Cochise were both napping on Alfred's wider couch with Cochise tucked under Ulysses' head. "This ain't what matters. What matters is that we have useful intel, and-"

Alfred waved an impatient hand. "I know, I know. But 'someone we can trust' doesn't help me. I need to know whether or not this is someone we should be worried about protecting or not. Everyone involved runs the risk of incurring Menewa's wrath, and I'd rather not have a dead nation on my conscience!" His eyes narrowed as he sat opposite her and sat down two mugs of decaf.

She shook her head, giving in. "Fine, it's Israel. I didn't give her much information other than what she already knows."

"Shit, Germany's gonna kill me if he finds out. Why’d you pick the pregnant nation with an overprotective husband?” he groaned, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“She’s outta his reach. I doubt he’d care either way. Bastard wants me, remember?”

“Yeah, don’t remind me.”

“All she did was retrieve a file, and e-mail us a bunch of encrypted documents. She's too far removed to be in any serious danger from that asshole, and she can take care of herself if any of the wars have proven anythin’."

He looked up almost guiltily, giving off a wounded puppy vibe. "Yeah, I guess she's kind of like you that way."

She couldn't stay angry at that face. Dammit, she needed to be angry to talk this out with him. She dropped her gaze to Stonewall, watching his eyes close in contentment and his leg start kicking at the continued scratching just under his chin. "It didn't stop ya from puttin’ me in the safehouse," she said darkly.

"I felt it was necessary."

“Yeah, well I feel I deserve an explanation, smartass." When her gaze came up, it was determined and fiery. She was both those things but she was also hurt that he betrayed her trust like that. Her voice shattered the silence, quiet and firm. "Stonewall, bed."

The puppy looked up at her once before jumping from her lap and trotting into the TV room, likely to pester Al’s poor cat. Ulysses was used to that shit, but poor Cochise wasn’t quite so fond of her bloodhound puppy.

"You're right. You deserve an explanation. I was...selfish." He ducked his head, eyes staring into his coffee. It was so unlike him to bare his soul like this to anyone. It showed Dixie how much he cared because he was willing to do this just to make her feel better. "It's not the first time I've been selfish, and I doubt it'll be the last, but...it was the first time I've ever been selfish because of you." He gritted his teeth. "After how long I've known you, I should trust that you can look after yourself but...it felt like if I let you out of my sight, Menewa would show up and you'd be gone forever and it'd be my fault because I got careless, because I didn't watch your back.

"I didn't want you participating in the investigation because it was like letting you stand in front of him with a target painted on your chest." He took a deep breath and let it out in a shaky, emotion-laden sigh. "But I didn't consider...how it'd make you feel. All I knew was that if you were somewhere safe, I could take out the thing threatening the most important thing in my life." Looking up, Alfred swallowed hard, face grim. "You've already nearly died so many times because of me. I was just trying to make sure it wouldn't happen again. I...I can't afford to lose you, Dix."

Her eyes watched him in inscrutable silence. "Ya saying this ‘cause we had sex?"

A horrified look crossed his face, like he couldn’t even fathom doing such a thing even though she’d seen him do it before with others. "God no. Dix...I'm saying it as someone that would go absolutely insane without you here. I've-" He hesitated. "I've had feelings for you ever since...since that hill at Antietam."

"Sharpsburg," she corrected automatically as she ran her fingers over one of his hands. Her gaze dropped to the table between them. "I've had feelings since...the night I tried ta kill ya after the assassination."

Alfred paused for a moment before laughing under his breath. "All this time we've been tip toeing around each other."

She was silent, except for a nod of agreement. "I owe ya an apology too," she said, voice quiet. "I thought...in sending me ta the safehouse, you were being possessive. Like a child, with a toy ya didn't want anyone else ta play with." She looked up in time to catch the twist in his lip. "But you were bein’ protective. You were just tryin’ ta keep me safe."

The first glint of hope began to glint in his eyes. He held out a hand, palm-up: an invitation for her to complete the touch. "The sleeping pills in your drink was beyond stupid. I was desperate. I know it was the lowest thing I've ever done, and...I hope you know I'd never do anything like that under normal circumstances."

"I know."

Standing, Dixie tugged Alfred's arm to get him to stand in front of her, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his chest. She felt him relax and soon felt him wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his nose in her hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "From now on, we're in this together."

"We always were." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. The discomfort that came with the airing of feelings—something that did not come naturally to either of them—was gone and they were back to the comfortable familiarity they were used to. It was just…a bit different now. A good kind of different. "We should get some sleep. It ain’t gonna do any good if yer falling face-down at yer desk tomorrow."

Alfred snorted. "Geez, girlfriend to mother in less than a minute."

Dixie smacked his arm and pulled away with a smirk. "I'm gonna get dressed down, if you don't mind.”

The already-present grin turned diabolical. "Can I help?"

Dixie paused and stared at him. "Help me change my clothes?"

"That's what I said." For a long moment, all she did was stare at him. It had to be the lack of sleep bringing out that bizarrely childlike streak that caused him to sulk quietly whenever he didn't get his way or stubbornly refuse to do something because he "just didn't want to." She went and got herself involved with a man-child. Nevertheless, things would proceed much more quickly if she just humored him. "I wasn't aware," she said flatly, beginning to undo the buttons on her fitted vest. "That you of all people would be interested in dressin’ me like when I was little."

"There's a difference between dressing and undressing." He wrapped his fingers around hers, the shit-disturber's grin fading back into a sexually knowing smirk. "I still owe you an orgasm."

"There's a better time fer this," she murmured, gaze dropping from his eyes to his hands as they started undoing her buttons. She weakly clutched his wrists in her hands. "When the problem's gone and when you ain’t exhausted."

He smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. "You're using logic for something that you and I both know has no logic at all. Don't worry about me, I caught three or four catnaps. I'm good until we get another break. I just want you to relax. Then, when we're back on duty, you'll be twice as ready for anything that's thrown our way."

The opposing choices were playing tug-of-war in her chest. On the one hand, she could give in, she could let him pay attention to her like they both wanted. But on the other hand, years of responsibility and discipline told her that she needed to focus on getting her proverbial house in order before indulging in anything.

Grinning, Alfred suddenly caught her behind the knees and lifted. Dixie made a small noise of surprise, her hands going to his shoulders for balance. He carried her up the stairs to his huge bedroom as he laid her on the mattress and kissed her. After a small, startled grunt, she kissed him back, letting her hand slide up over his chest. He grinned against her lips, opening his mouth invitingly and with surprising gentleness. Dixie sighed and licked the roof of his mouth, his teeth, and his full lower lip, pushing deeper until they were taking desperate, gulping breaths of each other, twisting their fingers into each other’s hair and clothes and holding on like it was their only means of survival.

Alfred was an animal, and yet his touch was soft and adoring. Somehow he had gotten her shirt and vest off without her knowing, and he hurriedly fumbled with her bra. Her hands started deftly undoing his shirt and shoving it off, leaving golden tan muscle in its wake. If she had her way, he'd never wear shirts again. She didn't care if he couldn't get rid of the love handles and fat on his stomach. Dixie kissed the jagged scar above his heart before moving down to his abdominals and running her tongue up. She heard his breath hitch as the taste of sweat and his skin caressed her tongue. She swirled her mouth over the nubs on his chest and smiled when his hand shot into her hair and he leaned into her.

She moved down to his belt just as he got her bra unhooked and pulled it down her arms. She cupped where the fabric of his slacks strained, reveling in the hitch of his breath and the weight of it in her hand. He was an average length but Christ, his girth was massive. Just as she got his belt undone, Al gripped her wrist and pulled it away.

“Not yet,” he whispered, voice husky and laden with want. He lifted his hands to hold her face as his lips brushed against hers before drifting to her cheek and her jaw.  “So fucking beautiful,” he breathed against her skin as she carded her fingers through his hair.

Alfred kissed down her jaw, her throat and collarbone and then above her sternum. Her fingers curled in his hair as he neared her breasts, and then all she felt was a warm mouth on her nipple as he gripped her breasts and skimmed her ribs. Dixie actually quit breathing for a moment, feeling as though every nerve was being teased by that hot mouth. His tongue swirled while his teeth scraped along her sensitive skin before he moved to the other, using his hand to treat the one he left behind.

Al wedged a knee between her thighs, grinding against her and making her head swim and her breathing get heavier. He braced himself, placing a hand on either side of her shoulders as he brought his knee closer, rubbing it against her with purpose and swallowing her embarrassingly lewd moans with his lips on hers. He moved back, leaving her without that delicious, heated friction as he jerked her slacks and boxers off, throwing them back so far that they hit the far wall. That's when Dixie noticed his lack of nudity.

“Off," she moaned as she grabbed the front of his pants and jerked him towards her. "Now.”

“Yes, ma'am. Anything to hear more of those whines. God.” He leaned back on his knees to get the constricting garment off as quickly as possible.

Dixie sat up with him, tugging the zipper down as he undid the button on his pants. As soon as he shucked them down to his knees, her hands were in his black boxers to grip him, squeeze the thickness gently with her fingers. She flicked her thumb over the head, gathering pre-cum to slick him. Alfred's breath was staccato, moans and grunts filling the air as he pressed his forehead to the crook of her neck. He half-heartedly pulled her hand away and pushed her back down into the mattress, allowing her to crawl up the bed to rest her head in the pillows.

He lowered himself over her as he trailed his fingers over her stomach affectionately. It registered in her head that his hand was finally moving lower, just beyond where she craved him most. Then he was sitting on his knees between her legs, a shit-eating grin on his face. Alfred leaned forward, holding her by the hips as he pressed circles into the divots of her pelvis. With a devilish glow in his eyes, he lay on his stomach and hooked her knees over his shoulders, and she was suddenly reminded of doing this with France. This was so much better and so much more intimate. France could never even begin to compare.

Slowly, he mouthed his way up her inner thighs, nibbling and leaving marks on her skin. He was getting close. So fucking close. "Look at me," Alfred growled as he looked up at her through thick lashes, drunk with lust. "God, you look so fucking hot like that. All debauched and sexy."

The words made her blush a dark red as she averted her gaze.

She felt him kissing up and down her slit, memorizing her. She felt him lick her scar from...fuck, don't think about it. Not right now. All thought was lost though when he sucked her clit between his lips. Dixie heard herself choke out a loud noise of appreciation. He tongued at it, drawing circles against it, moaning like he was dying to be between her legs. Dixie's hands were firmly gripping the sheets as his hands pinned her bucking hips, likely leaving more bruises. When she whimpered, she felt one of Al's hands brushing against hers. Tongue now dipping into her, his hand held hers gently, fingers intertwining.

When she looked down towards him, she realized he was staring right at her. She flexed her thighs and jumped when his moan vibrated against her clit, sending electric jolts straight to her toes. It sent her back up off of the bed, eyes rolling back. She felt him smile against her before nibbling on her clit. His scrape of teeth against her make her whole body jolt. There was a draft of cool air that caressed Dixie's skin when Al's other hand left her hip. She could hear him and feel the mattress move as he shifted. She was close, so close. It was becoming unbearable as pleasure hummed through her veins. And then she felt a finger then two pressing into her, sliding straight down to the knuckle. There was a sound of a long, drawn out moan filling her ears, but it was much too feminine to be Alfred, which meant the embarrassingly lewd moan came from her.

He started flexing his fingers, searching as his tongue continued to assault her clit. It hit her like a brick wall. A choked out sob escaped her throat as her whole body bowed up. The hand in hers squeezed as the force of her orgasm spread like wildfire: hot and uncontrollable. Her skin felt as though it was on fire and chilled at the same time. Her breath was shallow and labored. Alfred was carrying her through it, tongue letting up only to gently lap at her clit.

When the bliss faded to a level where she could form words once more, Dixie tugged against the hand still in hers. Alfred let go of her hand, slowly crawling up her flushed skin to place his forehead against hers. She pressed her mouth to his, faintly tasting herself on his tongue. But suddenly the need was back. She needed more, and judging by the way he ground against her hip, Alfred did too.

She ran her hands over his chest, tracing the contours of his body, fingers dipping in the valleys between muscles. Slowly, her hands made their way to where he was swollen and throbbing. Dixie smirked when she heard his breath hitch as she got close. Her touch was light as she traced the vein on the underside of his cock. She glanced at his face, drinking in the look of primal pleasure and want as his jaw clenched, eyes hooded and brows furrowed.

"Lie back."

Nodding, Alfred quickly did so, wrapping his arms around her to take her with him. She kissed him and traced the veins in his throat with her tongue, enjoying the way he shuddered before she sat up on her knees and straddled him. If he made a cowgirl joke, she'd murder him. Dixie braced herself with one hand on his chest as she guided him to her core and slowly sank down, her moans mixing in with his as his cock split her open. It felt like every fiber of her being was focused on the joining between her legs. Her thighs twitched as she braced herself on his chest and slowly ground her hips into him, making his pubic bone press deliciously into her clit. She lifted up suddenly and brought herself down sharply. Alfred swore as he gripped her ass while Dixie gasped. She could practically feel him in her throat, and it felt glorious. She slammed herself down on his cock rougher this time and whimpered, digging her nails into Alfred's chest. Her breasts began to shift with her movement as she shut her eyes and bit down on her lip.

“God, look at you,” he murmured as he grabbed her breasts and squeezed, making her jerk and grind her clit into him. “You’re a fucking goddess and you don’t even realize. So much better than a wet dream.” Then he lifted his hips to drive his cock up into her.

Dixie grunted loudly, a flush of heat reddening of her skin. One hand moved to grip her ass again, making her arms buckle as she fell slightly against Al's chest. Al huffed out a breathy laugh before meeting her hips again for a deep, rough thrust. The constant movement of his hips only made the assault on her clit more intense. He shifted then, forcing their chests to smash together as his hand once occupied with her breasts moved to join the one on her ass, using it to deepen and speed up his thrusts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed against her jaw. “You look so good like this: with me inside of you, with my arms around you, with my mouth between your thighs.” He slammed his mouth onto hers, teeth clacking as he pressed his tongue in. Dixie whimpered against his lips as the coiling in her stomach got close to the breaking point.

Lifting her hips, Dixie slammed down onto him, grinding in circles to get added friction to her clit. He moaned, pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and tugging on it. His grunting and moans were becoming more rapid, as he held her in an impossibly tight grip. Dixie continued grinding against him, her hand shooting up into his messy, soft hair as her own closeness blurred her vision. She felt his body lock down then, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. She moaned as she continued fucking him through his orgasm, watching as goosebumps rose along his tanned skin. Then her own orgasm hit her, and suddenly several strings of curses intermingled with Alfred's name escaped her as electricity fired through every nerve in her body.

Mouth agape and eyes closed tight as she came down from her high, she felt his lips against the scar on her throat. Dixie opened her eyes, slow and heavy, to see an unhindered storm of adoration and something else in Alfred's eyes. He ran his hands up and down her back as she rested on his chest and gently kissed him. He was gorgeous with his hair strewn in every direction, a sheen of sweat across his forehead and chest, sky blue eyes heavy and cheeks flushed. She relished the feeling of his heartbeat that matched her own.

She hummed in contentment as he combed through her hair with his fingers mindlessly. Just as she was beginning to doze, Dixie realized something odd. All her life, she'd felt a hollow emptiness and a raw hunger to fill it. During her time as Confederacy, it had lessened, but she learned then that it would never stop until she took the entire country. Even after falling for Alfred, this strange hunger lingered, and it was likely the same for him. Now though, the emptiness was gone. She felt like a whole nation again.

Chapter Text

Dinah's heart raced as she pulled the cabinet door shut, praying to God that the monster hadn't seen her running into the cottage. The darkness in the cabinet made her lightheaded as she struggled to catch her breath, but she barely noticed. Her mind was too busy reliving the horrors that she just witnessed. Her governess was taking her for a walk in the fort when suddenly she choked. Dinah looked up and saw an arrow protruding from her throat. The governess was gaping in horror as blood spurted onto Dinah's face. Then the monster appeared behind her and smashed her head in with a war club. Her brains were everywhere as she collapsed in front of Dinah. She could only watch in horror as he went after the pastor next, his black eyes aglow with joy.

She tried her best to hold in her whimpers as she failed to rub off all the tacky blood on her face while in the dark of the cabinet. Then she heard the door slam open. The monster was in the house. She heard him slam things and break valuables. But then the crashing stopped. She could hear the monster breathing. Dinah barely held back a sob as she shut her eyes to keep sweat from dripping into them, repeating the prayers that the monster couldn't hear her heart or breathing and would just leave and never come back.

Her knees went weak when she heard the monster stop directly in front of the cabinet. She clenched her fists as she struggled to keep her breathing silent while terror continued to overwhelm her. At any moment that monster could punch through the door as easily as he'd swung that club into the pastor's face. She pressed herself up against the back of the cabinet but otherwise didn't dare move. Her eyes were wide as she stared into the frightening dark as though she was staring straight at the demon on the other side of the doors.

For several long moments she stood still until she was almost certain the monster was gone. Dinah let out a long, shaky breath and was overcome with weakness in her knees. She was hot and grimy with sweat, as though she'd been running for hours. Her hand was trembling furiously as she pushed the door open with her right hand, peering out through the tiniest crack she could possibly make, horrified that the monster might be standing right there, waiting. And he was.

As soon as she popped her head out, Dinah was grabbed by the hair and jerked out of the cabinet. She screamed as he jerked her out onto the floor and making her look up into those soulless black eyes. His breath smelled metallic like blood as he grinned at her behind a mask of demonic war paint. "I found you," he purred.

Dinah screamed as she struggled against his grip until he flung her across the room onto the floor. The air was knocked from her lungs as she struggled to crawl away, screaming for someone...anyone to help her. He was grabbing her by the hair again, tugging until the back of her head was brushing her back. She stared in horror as he casually brandished a blade and started begging God to save her, but nothing of the sort came. "Such pretty hair. I've never seen any this color," he said, pressing his nose into her curls. "It's almost like snow. Like snow in the sunlight. It's lovely." He wrapped his hand in her hair until she thought he was going to pull it all out. He had something much worse in mind.

The first thing Dinah felt was the sharp pain of something digging into the skin of her forehead. It started digging in and started making a crude oval around her skull. Dinah screamed as he twisted and jerked at her hair until he'd come full circle. His bloodied hand gripped her shoulder, and he began separating her scalp from her head. She could hear the tissue snapping and popping as it pulled away until it released her. She collapsed in a heap, too horrified to scream at all the blood dripping into her eyes and mouth and down onto her dress. Then she heard him kneeling behind her as her scalp and hair regrew themselves, leaving blood as the only reminder of what happened.

Menewa felt a chill race up his spine as he stared at the delicious sight before him. When he had come on this raid, he hadn't expected to find a child nation; it was a happy accident. A very happy accident. He watched as her own blood soaked into her petticoats and skin as he inched closer. He purred as he buried his nose in her neck. She smelled glorious, like blood and cotton fields. Menewa smirked as she flinched away from him, trying to crawl away. So vulnerable. So perfect. He pinned her down, forcing her to wallow in the blood until her front was dark red. Then he looked down, saw those smooth little legs, the way the hem of her skirts rode up just before her underthings.

He grabbed her ankle and jerked her down until she was under him and he could eye those silky thighs. He placed one kiss, and then another, and another, moving up to her crotch. The look on her face was priceless: pure unadulterated fear. She started struggling all over again, becoming a flailing mix of limbs and tiny claws. He grinned as he shoved her legs apart and flicked his tongue against the highest inner point of her thigh before sinking his teeth in. The screaming and kicking make it worth the spray of blood down his throat. Emboldened, he sat up and hooked his fingers in her underthings, pulling them down her thighs as he pulled himself out of his trousers.

As soon as this raid started, he'd been rock hard. All that blood and fighting and death. It was glorious. The begging though was the best part of it all. He loved seeing those palefaced bastards on their knees begging. He even had a chaplain suck his dick. Against his better judgment he rubbed the head against her thigh, barely evading a jab of her bony knee as she whimpered. "Please, please stop. Don't hurt me anymore. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Didn't America tell you, child? This is how we nations prove ourselves. We dominate our adversaries...completely."

As he pushed against her core, the child nation started to violently thrash around trying to scramble away without any luck. Menewa grinned as he started to slowly push in. He wanted her to remember this. She continued to fight in vain and made little yelps as she was gradually forced open, and when the tip slipped all the way inside, she sobbed and screamed louder than ever. Surely some others would be coming to see what was going on. Maybe he'd let them join in and help him degrade her. Oh, he'd love to see America find her in that state. Menewa grinned as he forced himself in further, watching her panicky breathing mixed in with panting hiccups. He tried to push further but felt little give. For a moment, the comical idea of getting stuck hit him, but he only snickered and pulled back as far as possible, and then drove back inside.

A red gash ripped itself from her anus to her womanhood, and Menewa was able to slide about half of himself in without issue. Her whole body was tense, unmoving, her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Tears were sliding down the sides of hurt face, leaving pink trails into her hair. From the sound of it, she was close to either hyperventilating or choking. Either was equally acceptable. Besides, the deep red of her blood looked so pretty on her pale skin. Her heaving stomach was mesmerizing. Those perfect blue eyes glistening with tears, pupils blown wide from fear and pain; he could gaze into them for hours. Maybe he could take those back with him too along with her scalp. His hand slipped from the blood but he manages to keep a good grip as he gently began pumping in and out of the nation.

The building pressure of orgasmic pleasure was increasing rapid at the base of his cock. He pushed faster, and with a few more pushes, he finally reached climax, spilling his seed with a small groan. He all but fell boneless atop her, crushing the air from her lungs with his weight.

"Remember this," he hissed in her ear. "Remember I was the first one to conquer you."

Dixie woke with a jolt and sat up straight in bed, breathing hard and reaching for the gun under her pillow. The blankets seemed to come alive, dragging her under and intending to drown her. She felt hot as Alfred's arm lay limp on her hip. Dixie shuddered and immediately fought off the blankets trying to drown her and stood, but not before a sharp ache rocked her to the core.

Remember this...

Dixie gagged and made a run for the guest bathroom, not wanting to wake Alfred by using the adjoining one. As soon as she ducked into the bathroom, she puked. Her heaving rocked her and made her shaking worsen as she knelt in front of the toilet. She swore and weakly punched the stupid thing, angry at herself for being so goddamn weak. As soon as she had some sort of intimate connection with someone, that day would come out of the recesses of her mind. Sadly, she had once again failed to fight off the memory, to contain her fear and her rage.

After she was done emptying her guts, she shakily stood, looking at her trembling hands in disdain. They were the one thing that proved her mask was nothing but a cheap smokescreen. She swore under her breath before retreating to the foyer where her bag was tossed. She fished out clothes and a toothbrush and returned to the bathroom, shutting herself in and locking the door. She undressed and stared at herself in the mirror with disdain. There were love bites and hickies everywhere, and there were bruises on her hips in the shape of Alfred's fingers. Shakily, Dixie pressed on the light bruises and flinched, instantly thrown back to the memory looming over her like a demonic shadow.

She glared at herself in the mirror. Useless. She was so fucking useless. She couldn't even kill the man who raped her, let alone protect Alfred. No wonder Alfred won the Civil War. She was a pathetic excuse for a nation if ever there was one. Her dark blue eyes glared back at her as she continued to dress, but then as she brushed her hands through her hair, she felt it: that little raised scar along her hairline. Immediately, every muscle in her body locked. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.

"Shove it down!" Dixie snarled at her reflection before punching the mirror, making it shatter around her. A starburst of pain shot up her arm, and she winced. It was just enough to get her legs moving again.

Air. She needed air. Now.

Without thinking, she ran out the door with no rational destination in mind. She ran along the empty streets like hell hounds were snapping at her heels. They might as well have been. The air was brisk, and her hand was beginning to throb as she shot down an alleyway and then another and another. She couldn't remember when it happened, but she eventually wound up in Central Park, and when exhaustion and weakness finally drove her to her knees, dry heaves sent more aches through her body. She was forced to admit that it was useless. No matter how far or fast she went, there was no escaping herself or that day that continued to plague her.

She wasn't sure how long she was crouched there, her forehead pressed to the rough bark of a nearby tree. Time had finally lost its grip on her, and she was grateful for that—glad to not have to speak, to enjoy moment of peace, silence, numbness. For just a little while, she felt nothing, was nothing, and it was a relief. It couldn't last forever though.

"I wondered if that was you."

Dixie struggled to force her eyes open, turning her head just enough to look at the owner of the voice. It was Israel; she barely recognized her. She was wearing a three quarter sleeve purple maxi maternity dress, and her hair was done in a long black braid that rested between her cleavage. Around her shoulders was a knitted shawl that hid some sort of small pistol from view while keeping her warm in the frigid New York winter air. She was sitting on a nearby bench rubbing her protruding belly, her eyes never really going to Dixie at all. For a moment she was convinced she'd imagined her talking to Dixie or just imagined her in general.

"Get up from there. You're getting your clothes dirty."

Dixie stared at the younger nation in disbelief. She'd never known Israel to act like a mother hen. Quite the opposite actually. After all, she was the personification of a country despised by many and loved by few. She was always under attack, and her people were tough as nails just like her. She was one of the few presently combating nations in Dixie's eyes. Carefully, she pushed herself to her feet, cursing the weakness in her legs as she stumbled and flopped down on the bench beside her, blessedly numb at the moment. That numbness was replaced by the feeling of warmth and the smell of coriander and zaatar spices.

She stared as Israel finished laying her shawl over Dixie's shoulders. "You'll catch your death being out in this weather wearing that."

Dixie noted she had put on a thin tshirt and a pair of slacks in her hurry to get dressed back in Alfred's apartment. "I-I can't. This is yours, and you need it more than I do."

"I'll be fine."

"But you're pregnant, and-"

"Take it," she snapped harshly. There was the Israel she knew.

The two of them sat there, silent, shoulder to shoulder. "What're you doing here?" Dixie questioned.

"I was here on...business and thought I'd stop by to say hello. I always love visiting New York. My people call it the little Israel."

"What business? The President said nothing of Netanyahu-"

"I'm here with Mossad. They were here taking care of something, and I tagged along. I don't want my combat skills getting too rusty." Ah, that made more sense. "You're bleeding."

Dixie looked down at her hand and grimaced. There were still bits of glass in her knuckles, and her hand was stained red and sticky. Dirt and other debris were in the cuts too, making flexing her hand difficult, and the constant tremors in her hands were doing her no favors either. Israel grabbed her hand and frowned before standing slowly, pulling Dixie along with her by the wrist with surprising strength. Then again, she was a technological and defensive superpower.

Dixie stumbled along as she hailed a cab like a child being pulled by its mother. After a bit of cautious fumbling, she was seated comfortably inside, using her knees to keep the blood from dripping onto the upholstery. The cab and seats were pleasantly warm as the city zoomed by. The cab stopped at a Holiday Inn & Suites, and once again, Dixie was being guided out like a small child. She followed her silently through the hotel lobby and the elevator, not wanting to break the calming quiet that prevailed even after they were in her small room and Dixie was pushed to sit on one of the pristinely made twin beds.

"I'll get you some painkillers and then I'll clean up your hand." It wasn't a suggestion.

Dixie nodded anyway. Painkillers sounded like a good idea. She could use the numbing feeling as a buffer until she could get control of her emotions. It didn't' take long for Israel to return with a glass of water and the promised pills. Dixie swallowed them hastily, a nervous lump forming in her throat. She didn't know if it was for fear of talking about why she had been crying in Central Park or for fear of removing the glass from her cuts. Definitely the former, but Dixie had become well-versed in ignoring the truth until she absolutely had to deal with it.

"So, who was it?" Israel asked as she sat in front of Dixie in a chair with a pristine white towel draped over her knees and sat out medical supplies.

"What?" she asked as she rested her hand on the fluffy Egyptian cotton.

"Who put that look in your eyes? Who raped you?"

Dixie froze up. By reflex, she clenched her fist and withdrew it back to her side. Every nerve was on edge and every muscle on full lockdown. Her mind was racing. Perhaps she heard her wrong? Maybe the drugs were just really effective and she was hallucinating.

"That's none a yer business. 'Sides, what would you know bout that stuff anyway?"

Dixie yelped when Israel roughly gripped her hand in a steel grip and jerked out a large piece of glass. She was glaring at Dixie as she tossed the shard into a nearby waste basket. "I'm trying to be nice. How about you extend me the same courtesy?"

Dixie squirmed as Israel cleaned up the area around the cuts with rough hands. This was the Israel Dixie was used to, the same Israel that Italy told her about when he told the story about the time she gave him stitches. However, her touch soon became gentle again. Dixie looked up, shocked at the oddly sad expression on the usually cocksure nation's face.

"Many don't realize that I witnessed and experienced the Holocaust through the eyes of my people. I'm the Jewish nation, you know. They were mine and I was theirs long before Israel was created. I...saw and felt things. Terrible things. Still do sometimes." Her cheeks tinged a light pink at that last confession though she never looked up.

Dixie's breath hitched as she carefully removed more glass, this time with tweezers. "How can you be so happy now? Don't the memories...resurface?"

"Sometimes," she said quietly. "It wasn't always like this though. For a long time, I was self-destructive and bitter, but one day it all just clicked. I loved and was married to the nation that had done me such an injustice, and that was okay. I don't want you to be stupid like I was." She dabbed her hand with a wet cloth. "I caused our marriage a lot of problems for no reason other than petty bitterness."

Dixie watched quietly as she worked, contemplating telling the fellow female nation the truth. "I...I was raped...back when I was little. Real little. He said he was conquerin' me." She watched as Israel pulled out the last piece before squeezing the cuts, using the blood to clean the wounds before washing away the dirt with water and peroxide. "He...He killed my nanny, an' I tried ta hide but it...it didn't work." She was starting to go into hysterics. Her breathing was coming out in short pants and her eyes were flooding with unshed tears.

Fuck, she felt like such a weakling, pouring her soul out like some stupid child. She just couldn't stop telling her, telling the world her dirty secret. Israel was the only other person she verbally mentioned it to...other than Alfred. She hardly even noticed when Israel had cradled her to her chest, rocking back and forth and rubbing her back while humming. That made the floodgates burst open. Dixie let out a sob that rocked her entire body. God, she really was a pathetic mess. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if Alfred-

The door was flung open. Then hurried footsteps followed. She raised her teary eyes to see none other than the very man she wanted to avoid seeing her like this. He looked ridiculous in his boxers and a hastily tugged on shirt that was inside out and backwards. Suddenly, she was pulled away from Israel and into a familiar warmth that smelled like pizza and wheat fields. Her sobs began anew as she wrapped her arms around his middle, clinging like she'd never let go.

"I was so worried," he whispered into her hair. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." And there was something in his tone that completed the sentence, wordlessly: but someone will be. "Thanks for taking care of her, Hana."

"Ahl lohdah vahr," the pregnant nation said happily. "But now that you've been reunited, would you mind getting out? I'm tired, and the argument with my husband is about to start."

As if on cue, Israel's phone rang.

"Let's head home."

"A halan?" Israel asked sweetly. "Excuse me, how about you try introducing yourself?" A pause filled wth muffled shouting followed. "You can't tell me to do shit." Then the screaming started.

"I'm right behind ya," Dixie said quietly.

Translations: You're welcome and hello in Hebrew

Chapter Text

Hanging up the phone at the end of what felt like the millionth phone call since being left at the office, Cosette sighed heavily, stretching her arms up over her head. Archie was similarly occupied with a telephone and a stack of names a mile high.

"Ça s'éternise," she muttered, dialling the next number. "Thirty names each, and I've only gotten through three. All dead ends." She propped her chin on her hand. "How you doing?"

Archie shook his head and put his booted feet on the table as he reclined as much as he could in his chair and dialed the next number. He bolted upright almost immediately, his hat falling off where it had been resting on his chest. "Mr. Caldson? Name's Archibald Jones; I'm with the FBi an'-" He paused, expression becoming patiently tolerant. "No, sir, you ain't gettin' charged with nutin'. Sir, I need ya ta listen fer a moment bout a man you reported as the perpetrator of a robbery." His hand lifted to massage his temple, betraying his exasperation. "No, Mr. Caldson, yer testimony ain't been called into question. I just need ta talk witcha 'bout it, as part of a new investigation."

Another pause. "Sorry, sir, I cain't say much 'bout it on the phone. I'd like ta meet in person and discuss it then." Cosette smirked when his eyes rolled skyward. "No sir, I ain't callin' cuz you don't like Obama. If I did that, I'd be here fer a year. Mourner Street...right. I'll be there in a sec. Yessir." Hanging up, he hesitated a moment. "I'll give you five thousand bucks if you go talk to this guy."

"Du clous," Cossette snickered. "What's so bad about him?"

"For starters, he sounds 'bout eighty, with three screws loose an' he's apparently half-deaf, since he's shoutin' inta the phone. Worst of all, he's got a voice like nails on a chalkboard."

"Quit bahbin," Cosette grinned at her sibling's misfortune, watching him collect his hat and jacket.

Both of them froze when the phone on the conference table rang. Now was an odd time for a call. It was an early Sunday afternoon. Mom and dad never came in on Saturdays or Sundays for work, so everyone knew better than to call the office. Archie looked just as confused as she pressed the speaker button and answered the call.

"The office is closed today."

"Good afternoon, Louisiana Purchase, or do you prefer Cosette?" A male voice inquired. "How is that headache? I realize you took a bit of aspirin for it earlier."

Cosette frowned. "Who is this?"

The voice on the other end tsked. "Now, now, Cosette, don't be so suspicious when someone expresses concern for you. It makes you look ungrateful. I'm sure Texas is much more appreciative, aren't you?"

Cosette suppressed the shiver that wanted to go down her spine. This was the guy trying to kill her mom. Jesus, he was creepy. She couldn't see how her mom handled knowing this guy had been watching her every move. She'd be having a total breakdown. Archie wasn't looking too happy either. He sat back down, glaring at the phone like it killed his favorite horse.

"The hell you want, you dirt humpin' piece of shit," he snarled.

A disappointed sigh. "So blunt and crass. Did America and Confederacy teach you nothing about using manners?"

"Not for anyone that's after our mother," Cosette supplied, using her laptop to try and pinpoint the location. She just needed a few minutes more to get a solid lock.

"This is getting tiresome. Since you don't seem to be up for pleasantries, I'll get straight to the point." He paused for the space of a breath. "I know what you all are up to, and I'm sorry to tell you...it's not going to work. You can't find me, and you most certainly can't hide Ms. Bohannon from me."

"You seem mighty cocky for a guy that lost his entire tribe to a few blankets from Smallpox Jimmy. 'Sides, she beat you before, she'll do it again."

"By the way, did you know Confederacy is staying with America? I watched them go into his apartment three hours ago, and no one has come out." The line went dead.

"You get it?"

"No, just a general area."

"Close enough. C'mon, this office is compromised."

"He's probably got mom and dad's houses bugged too. We need to give them a heads up."

"Wait, he knew they...he's been watching dad's place."

"Shit."

When his phone began to vibrate, neither of them was in a terrific position to answer it. Dixie and Al were laying in his bed with her back against his chest and their legs intertwined. After talking to him about her problems, Dixie started to get tired and mopey. He knew how to deal with the aftermath of PTSD attacks for himself, but he didn't know anything about her coping mechanisms. Some hero he turned out to be. When he asked her what would help, all she asked for was to cuddle. He'd never seen her look so helpless before. She looked better now that she was resting though.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Alfred reached over Dixie and grabbed his phone. As he propped himself up on his elbow, Dixie started to stir. So much for letting her sleep. She turned to face him, watching him from where her head rested on a pillow. Al kissed her nose as he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, winking when she smiled softly at him. "Yeah?"

"Dad!" Texas' voice was full of relief which put Al on edge.

"Hey, Arch! Wassup?" He sat up more, watching as Dixie started to nod off again. Fuck she was gorgeous, and now she was his. He knew he was grinning like an idiot but he had no fucks to give about that.

"We got a call from Menewa. About five minutes ago." Well, there went the mood.

"Really," Al was busy watching the way his shirt rode up Dixie's waist. It sent his memory flashing to what they'd been doing last night. Blinking forcefully, he dispelled that particular image for the time being. Time to focus, brain. "What did he say?"

"Not a lot. For the most part, he said we couldn't hide mom from him. He also knew you and mom were together at your place."

Alfred frowned. "We'll head back to the office; keep on with what you were doing before he called. We'll be there soon."

"Hold yer horses, dad. There's more."

"This is something you'll wanna to hear now rather than later, dad," Cosette chimed. She sounded gravely serious, like "a puppy is in the wood chipper" serious.

"Sure. What is?"

"A security breach."

"WHAT?!" Alfred nearly jumped out of the bed when Dixie shot up and snatched his phone from his hand. Even both of her dogs and Cochise trotted in to investigate the noise. She was livid and it showed in her feral expression. He was glad that ball shriveling glare wasn't aimed at him right now. She pressed the speaker button. "Boy, I swear ta God, if you're tryin'a be funny, I'll tan your hide."

"N-No ma'am," Texas balked.

"How then? Where?" she growled as she paced the floor like an angry lion. Damn she was hot when she got all serious like that. He patted the bed, and the animals converged on the bed with Stony in his lap and Cochise rubbing against his back while Ulysses rolled in and sniffed the blankets. Big old pervert.

"I don't know how, but the office may have been compromised. Menewa mentioned a thing or two in his call that hinted he's been listening in on our conversations. Conversations we've only had in the office."

"Which conversations?"

"He mentioned the aspirin I took for my headache an hour earlier," Cosette started. "No one was there but me and Arch. Then there's the question of how he knew where you two are."

Alfred sighed. "It's a lot of little things that keep adding up. I don't like the number they're coming to."

"Right." Dixie said, her professional mask pristine as ever though in her eyes, he could see her apprehension and fear. "We gotta assume the office is compromised, and will be until we can bring 'im down."

"Hey, about the call," Alfred piped up. "Was there any indication of where he might be? Background noise, something he said?"

"That's the last point I was going to make." Tex's voice was grim. "When he said he knew your location, his exact words were 'I watched them go in three hours ago and no one has come out.' Seems to me that the only way he could know that is if...y'know."

Alfred felt the color drain from his face and watched as Dixie went paler than a sheet. Both of them sprung to life as Alfred grabbed the phone. "Get on the phone with Homeland Security, tell 'em we're using the bunker. Call Arthur, Francis, Mattie and Prussia. Tell them the same. They'll know."

"Roger."

Dixie ran a hand through her her messy blonde hair in frustration. Her gaze became steely as she started picking up scattered clothes. "Anythin' you need to do here, do it now," she barked, going into combat mode. "I wanna be outta here in ten minutes."

"He must've been watching for a while."

Her eyes widened and her blonde hair flared out as her head whipped around to stare at him, one hand on her boxers he'd tried to hide. "He's probably on the street below right now." Leaving the boxers where they were, Dixie reached under a pillow and...when the hell did she bring a gun?! How did she get it into his bed?! "Now that he knows we know, he won't stay long."

Alfred caught her before she could head for the door. "He put the call in a while ago, Dix. Odds are, he was bolting before he finished hanging up." He made sure to look her in the eye.

She looked away after glaring at him for a few moments. He relaxed when she huffed and put the safety back on. She sat it down and put her hands up in mock surrender. "Happy?"

"A little," he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Y'know why I'm doing this, right?"

"Yeah. I just...feels like we're tuckin' tail. Don't like it."

Menewa sat silently in the dank alleyway, staring at the pair of radios on the ground in front of him. One was tuned to the device in America's office, the other to the bug on America's bedroom lamp. Both hissed slightly with faint hints of static, that being the only noise. Glancing about the alley he sat in, making sure no vengeful Confederacy was bearing down on him, he reached out, turning the first receiver off and then the other.

The office radio, he tossed away into a nearby dumpster; he had been caught, meaning it was no longer of any use to him. The link to America's apartment, though. Yes, that had been useful indeed. He tucked it under his coat before checking his watch and his surroundings. Slipping his hands into his pockets, Menewa set off casually through the alley route he had mapped out towards his hiding place. While Confederacy and America were certainly in a hurry to get to wherever their new safe haven was, he had no doubt they'd pausing to check the area for him. It was best to be gone by the time they did.

The game was halfway played, and now his opponents were changing the rules. Very well, he would change some rules of his own. Sweet revenge on Dixie Winthrop Bohannon was paramount.

Without warning, her back was pressed flush against the rough brick wall of the alley, Al's lips crashing mercilessly against hers. Unbidden, the image sprang to mind of an all-consuming fire, taking whatever it wanted from whatever stood in its way. That was Alfred. She had no choice but to submit, and she did so quite willingly. One hand tangled in her hair, the other squeezed her waist, he pulled back ever so slightly, just enough for Dixie to see the goofy grin that spread across his face. "Been waiting for a chance at this for hours," he muttered, voice huskier than usual.

"You've had any number a opportunities," she shot back dryly. Alfred ducked his head, searching out her neck. "I'm surprised ya waited this long."

Her fingers involuntarily clenched the material of his coat as his hips pressed against her. "Self-control is an important thing to have, isn't it? I'm a superpower after all," he murmured, breath warm on her ear and smile evident in his words.

Risking a glance to the right, Dixie consciously relaxed her grip on him. "I'd say so. Speaking of, he's gone."

Standing straight and taking his weight off of her, Alfred glanced around. "Just once, when we're staking out a place and have to stand in an alley, I'd like do it without somebody showing up to piss. It's getting old." He glanced to where she still leaned against the wall, eyes wandering over her. "Though I don't mind the cover-up."

Al and Dixie were staking out a fancy club called, MKitty. They "leaked" information that Dixie would be at the club, and both of them were hoping to catch Menewa walking in. It had been Alfred's idea while Dixie was driving to the bunker, so they made a little detour. Now, instead of being in a stuffy bunker, they were in a stinky alley dressed like clubbers. Al got to wear some torn jeans and a fitted shirt with his bomber jacket. She had to wear a ridiculously short, sleeveless red cocktail dress that only came down to her thighs. Not fair. Straightening herself while brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she shot him an "I bet you do" look before moving back to the corner of the building. From there, the street was visible, as well as the line to get into the MKitty Club.

"Well, he hasn't shown up in the last minute; I don't think the line's even moved."

"Probably not, for a place like that." He stood behind her pressed up against her to keep her warm. "The real question is whether or not Menewa will take the bait."

A chill of discomfort was beginning to creep up her spine. She folded her arms tightly against it. "I wish we had a way of trackin' him."

Al's nose nudged gently against the back of her head as he leaned close. "I know." Mistaking her posture to mean she was cold from the weather, his hands went to her upper arms, rubbing firmly to generate warmth. She wasn't ungrateful, but it wasn't exactly solving her issue either. No amount of snuggling or physical contact ever would. "Then again, if we were able to track him, maybe we wouldn't have to run. We could have him in custody by now."

"Wishful thinkin'." She watched as the line moved another few feet, some faces disappearing, others coming into view. None of them were Creek nation. "When he does show up, how are we plannin' ta bring him down?"

"We may have to cross that bridge when we come to it." His tone was thoughtful, but slightly absent as he looked back down the alley. "We could always just walk out and arrest him, but if he fights back, we could put people in danger."

"I hope he fights. It'll gimme an excuse to put a bullet in his brain." She looked back over her shoulder at Alfred. He was just staring at the shadows. "Civilians could be a problem, but...what is it?"

He was still staring into the alley, eyes narrowed as they tried to pierce the shadows, clearly watching something. His brow furrowed as he frowned, taking a half-step backward. His hands left her arms, and in the next second, he burst into a flurry of motion. His eyes widened, his shoulders lifting like a cat spotting a dog it loathes. One hand reached out, caught Dixie by the wrist, and dragged her behind him as he faced down the alley. Not taking his gaze from whatever it was he saw, he turned his head just enough to mutter an order. "Don't move."

Dixie didn't even ask what he was talking about. A heavy weight dropped into the pit of her stomach as the tingle in her spine strengthened. Peering over his huge shoulder, she watched as farther down the alley, a shadow detached itself from the others and moved into the watery light. Her heart stopped and everything went numb. There stood Menewa with his ruddy skin and long black hair. His face looked different though, mottled and deformed from when she bashed his head in. His eyes were still the same soulless black though. He looked like Gerard Butler in Phantom of the Opera, except he looked much more...demonic.

"Good evening, dearest. America. Fancy meeting you two here. I half expected you to be inside, but here you are wrapped up in a nice little bow." His black, shark-like eyes glinted eerily. "I must say, this is an unexpected pleasure. How thoughtful of you two."

"I wouldn't count on that," Alfred said evenly. "Though I'd be lying if I said we weren't hoping to run into you."

Menewa took another step forward. His head canted to one side as he looked past Alfred's shoulder. "You're awfully quiet tonight, dearest. I should think you'd have something to say to me after all this time apart. No 'hello'? No 'good to see you'?"

Fighting down a shiver, Dixie neutralized her expression. She let the mask fall into place, hiding the scared girl from the monster in front of her. "If I used half the words I'm thinkin' right now, I'd have ta wash my mouth out with purple soap."

His smile widened into a grin. "Clever as always. And more lovely than our last meeting, I dare say." His gaze flicked back to Alfred. "You're a lucky man, America. This young lady is one in a million." He paused. "I must say, if you're out here in the field yourselves, waiting for me, I've touched some sort of nerve with the two of you."

Stepping to the side, out from behind Alfred, Dixie stood ramrod straight. She was not going to cower like some sniveling bitch and let him have control. Never again. She pulled a pump action shotgun from against a wall and pointed it at him easily. "On the ground."

He chuckled. "My, my dearest, you're so forceful. Does she take control in the bedroom too?"

Alfred stood with his hands casually in his pockets, though the hard edge in his voice betrayed his violent rage and tension. "You heard the lady."

"Ah, so she takes the lead, does she?"

"I tried to keep her out of this, but when she fixates, I can't do a thing." His bright eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Though, I don't think one or two blows on my part would go amiss before we turn you in. After all, you did breach my office's security and elude pursuit. I'm still pissed about that."

He chuckled again. "That's how the game is played." Sobering slightly, he looked from one to the other. "Though I have to say, I'm surprised you'd allow Ms. Bohannon to take charge in bringing me back to justice. She seemed to have no qualms about you taking control last night, right America?"

It took all of half a second for his meaning to hit home with the force of a small meteorite. For an instant, Dixie forgot how to breathe, dread sinking down through her chest and settling sickeningly in her stomach. Her gun lowered slightly. He…he heard that? He was privy to her most intimate moments. It was like being raped all over again.

Finally, she took a sharp breath in through her nose, swallowing hard. She needed to stay calm, shove everything back. She needed to soldier up. She couldn't think about that now! Right now, she needed to be cold and emotionless. She needed to be the nation that made others tremble when they opposed her. She needed to be the Dixie that wiped out terrorist sleeper cells and made others fear for their lives.

"Explain." Alfred's voice was cold and low, the single word a heavy demand.

Looking mildly surprised at their reaction, Menewa folded his arms. "I'd be happy to. Though I would think that the hickies you're both sporting would be explanation enough."

Dixie pumped the rifle and glared darkly. "I ain't tellin' you again, shitface. On the ground, hands behind yer back."

"Such a brash young lady." Hands lifted in a placating gesture, Menewa knelt on the concrete before lowering himself to lie on his stomach. He looked up at her with his hands folded behind his back. "Are you satisfied?"

"Not until I've cut the skin off yer bones and peeled out yer nerves one by one and dipped 'em in acid." Dixie bit out.

Menewa smiled. "So creative. I can see why you're considered a master of your craft."

Alfred came around to Menewa's side in a shallow arc, keeping out of Dixie's line of fire, should she have cause to shoot. "How do you even get your intel?"

"A combination of old-fashioned surveillance and radio technology. I had listening devices planted in your office, and in several strategic locations around yours and my dearest's apartment." His tone abruptly changed to something approximating concern. "Speaking of that, my dear, you really should consider investing in a better lock. Something much trickier to pick than your current one."

"Thanks." She appeared stoic, but the color was drained from her face. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. She wanting nothing more than to run and never see this bastard again. This man had been in her apartment, had broken in, had listened to everything. If he wasn't lying, that is. "Though you'll forgive me if I'm a bit skeptical. You don't have the best track record when it comes ta the truth."

Expression patient, Menewa closed his eyes. "I see. You want proof." He sighed. "Well, if America would be so kind as to check my right jacket pocket, he'll find all the proof you need."

Alfred glanced to her, almost in confirmation, before leaning in to reach the pocket. In the next split second, the entire situation went straight to hell. Pushing off the ground, Menewa sent Alfred sprawling backwards as he tried to catch his balance. Continuing the motion even as he twisted around, the Indian nation brought his knee crashing into the side of Alfred's head, not once, but two times. The first blow missed, striking the side of his nose with a sickening crunch, the other cracking against his jaw.

Before Dixie could shake off her surprise and fire, Menewa had a knife in hand, the tip of the blade hovering a bare half-inch from a stunned Alfred's throat as he held him up by the hair. Memories of being thrown and dragged by her hair hit Dixie like a tidal wave, and she stood rigidly still. She tried to fight off the memories and suppress them, but seeing the creature of her nightmares made the process impossible.

"Come now, dearest," he said softly, grinning widely. "Be sensible. Just set the gun down, and I'll see to it that your lover doesn't end up bleeding out in a dark alley like some nameless vagrant."

She could shoot him right now, shoot him and end this nightmare once and for all, but the moment she did, Menewa was going to spasm violently and that knife was going to go slicing through Al's neck. As much as Dixie trusted her aim, she knew full well what happened when a body was shot. Muscles convulsed, sometimes uncontrollably, and to have that happen when a weapon was pointed in Al's direction...too risky. Crouching slowly, she set her shotgun on the ground and stood straight again, her hands held out just slightly from her sides, in plain view.

"Well done, dearest. Now, kick it over to the wall, out of the way. You and I are going to have a little chat, and I'd rather do so without any interruptions."

A flick of her foot, and the gun went skittering off. Dixie's jaw clenched, the memory of those eyes and that menacing grin coming back fresh and clear.

He advanced slowly, throwing Alfred against the wall like he was nothing but a rag. "You never learn, do you, dearest? Not all those years ago, and not now. You never learned your proper place." Stopping in front of her, he reached up to tap his blade against her chin. "I. Am in. Control." The blade pressed against her skin, the keen edge slicing easily through the thin skin of her lip. "Not you."

Swallowing hard to keep her voice steady, ignoring the furious pounding of her heart, Dixie kept a steely gaze on those black eyes. "Y'said ya had proof ya'd been in my apartment?" she reminded him.

"Ah, yes. I did say that, didn't I." Reaching his free hand into his pocket, he withdrew the thin golden chain of a necklace, holding it up to eye level. "Does this look familiar, dearest?"

Dixie's eyes went to the pendant swinging at the bottom, something icy cold clenching around her heart and freezing her in place. "Yes."

"Good." His deformed smile turned sickly sweet. "Turn around; I'll put it on you. A pretty woman should have something equally pretty to wear."

Dixie's eyes narrowed, feeling a trickle of blood oozing slowly from her lip. "First rule of combat: never turn yer back on an enemy."

Laughing softly, the man shook his head. "An enemy? I can see how you would consider me such, but still: that wounds me." Some kind of sick humor glinted in his eyes as he looked back to her. "If anything, we are opponents, playing a spirited game. The only trouble is, the outcome of the game is already decided."

Undoing the clasp on the necklace, he reached up and behind her neck to fasten it. The memory of those calloused hand on her skin made an involuntary shiver rock her. "And when the game ends," he said softly in her ear. "I'm going to take great pleasure in killing you, dearest, and once you're gone and America's life is in shambles, I'll be a very happy man."

"Leave him out of this," Dixie hissed. "He had nothing to do with this. I'm the one you want, not him."

"That's where you're wrong." Dropping one hand back to his side, the other caught the back of her neck in a painful grip. Dixie grimaced and struggled to fight off tears. "When killing someone, I always make sure, wherever possible, to leave someone behind that's suffering." Shifting to the side, he forcibly turned her head to look at where Alfred lay motionless on the ground, blood streaming from his nose. "With you, it will be your lover."

"Fuck you."

He grasped her arm, turning her to face the wall. Dixie struggled briefly, until his fingers dug into a pressure point on her shoulder. "Now that we've had our little chat, I believe I'll be going. Be a good girl, and don't follow me." He leaned close, her hair shifting with his breath. Dixie closed her eyes, trying to block out the sensation. "I'll be back for you just as soon as I can."

He pushed as he turned, knocking her against the wall. Dixie spun even as footsteps sprinted off along the alley, pausing only for an instant to look around for her gun, but it was too embedded in the shadows to be seen by a cursory glance. She didn't get more than a few steps before a low moan sounded behind her. Stopping in her tracks, she glanced back at Alfred then at the direction Menewa went in. He would get away if she stopped now, but she was also unarmed and Alfred was incapacitated. He was the first priority.

Gritting her teeth, she turned back. Another time, another place, and then she would catch him once and for all. Right now, Alfred needed her, and she needed to know he'd be all right. Kneeling next to him on the cement, she eased a hand beneath his head, the other going to his cheek. "Alfred?" She gently slapped the side of his face. "Come on, wake up."

He shifted, eyes opening halfway. A moment passed before they managed to focus on her face. "D-Dixie? What-" He reached up, fingers dabbing clumsily at the sticky redness trailing from his nose. He frowned as his fingers came away bloody. "What the hell?"

"Hold still." Bending close, she studied the bridge of his nose carefully, fingers probing gently at the side. Almost instantly, Alfred's jaw clenched as he took a sudden inhale, air hissing through his teeth. "I hate to say it, but I think yer nose is broken."

All at once, the memory of just who had broken his nose seemed to come rushing back. Sitting bolt upright, barely giving her time to get out of the way, his gaze darted around the alley. "Where'd that bastard go?" he growled, moving to get to his feet. "That's twice now he's made me look bad, and I'm starting to get fucking sick of it."

"He's gone." Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Dixie folded it before stepping close. "I won't tell you again, Sir: hold still." She pressed the cloth gently to his nose, stemming the flow of blood. "After he knocked you out, he and I exchanged words and then he left." Her lip twisted.

Alfred was watching her expression closely, his own sympathetic and concerned, before his gaze shot down to the necklace. His fingers grasped the gold locket opening it with his thumb and brushing it over the photo inside. "Is this the pendant I gave you right before the Civil War?" he asked, the words only slightly muffled by the cloth under his nose.

Dixie nodded, feeling her cheeks getting warm as she avoided his eyes. "It was his proof he'd been in my apartment. He wasn't bluffing." She took a deep breath before looking at him.

He reached up, pulling her hand and the cloth away. "We're not going to give him the chance." His fingers tightened on hers, pure determination and stubbornness in his eyes. "We've gone through too much to lose to someone like him, and I'll be damned if I let him take you from me."

The corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing. Let's go. We need to get France and Canada from inside."

Al caught her wrist and pulled her back so she collided into his chest before she realized what was happening. At the same time, he put an arm out level with her eyes, caging her against the wall. Dixie's brow shot up as she turned to face him. "The hell're you doin'?"

"You look so fuckin' hot, babe." His smirk deepened as he bent forward, nudging their noses together.

Dixie rolled her eyes. "Now ain't the time or place!" she hissed, attempting to get away. "How can you want sex after breaking yer nose? Quit rubbin' yer blood on me, sicko!"

"Because knowing you kept that necklace is adorable, and I never get to see you adorable."

"Me bein' adorable ain't gonna keep you safe."

"Come on, just a quickie."

"No, Alfred. Get...will you move! Jesus!"

That grin went from sexy to mischievous. Dixie's eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion. "I'm getting tired of your insubordination, babe. I'm your boss remember? You gotta do what I say."

"Alfr-"

This shouldn't have been turning her on. She should've been smacking him, yelling at him, doing something other than just standing there staring at him like a lamb in the lion's jaws as he pushed a knee between her thighs. And why were her thighs raising themselves up around his waist when she should've be pushing his mouth away from her neck because she really didn't need a hickey there and everyone would see and-

He pressed his mouth to her neck, just beneath an ear as his hands slid up her mostly bare thighs, hiking the tiny skirt up so he could push her legs further apart. Dixie sighed at the warm touch and looked around before wrapping her legs around his waist and sliding her hands into his jacket. She could feel a smug smirk on his face as he continued his assault on her neck and jaw. Dixie was sure her face was flushed a disgraceful red by now, but she knew that even if she had the desire to stop now, it'd be nearly impossible to convince Alfred otherwise.

With one final act of defiance, she looked up at Alfred, trying to look as offput as possible. "Alf-" she choked off, her back arching as he pressed up against her, grinding slowly.

"See, you're enjoying it." His hand slid down her side, squeezing at her waist and down to her thigh as he leaned forward.

Her body was betraying her. She should've been punching the vein in his neck to force him to release her, but instead her back arched and her hips rolled into every grinding motion. Honestly, he was going to start getting used to this; she should've been trying to deter him but...

Her train of thought froze as she felt his hands grab at her breasts. Moaning softly, she wrapped her arms further around him, pulling herself in closer which was as good as saying yes. Al would never actually force her into having sex, especially not after earlier that morning. His hands immediately shot down to her embarrassingly lewd underwear France made her wear, pulling them aside. She choked on a gasp as he pressed himself inside her and began a steady rhythm.

Good, all of it good. She could barely stand it as she threw clung to him and arched into every thrust of his hips. Dixie bit down on Al's shoulder, muffling the moans and mewling escaping her lips as her hips rolled into Al's thrusts, her eyelids fluttering. His hands were gripping her waist again as he leaned down to devour the skin of her neck and collar bone, leave a bruise before she had the mind to resist.

Too soon she was crying out, volume be damned as she clenched and spasmed around him, and he wasn't far behind. His hands left bruises as he dug into her hips and drove himself in a few more times before he came, grunting and satisfied. Dixie could only grunt as he collapsed against her, pinning her to the wall with his weight. When he pulled out of her and began straightening his clothes, Dixie stepped around him and did the same, making sure he couldn't corner her for round two. When she finished running her fingers through her hair, she turned to catch the kicked puppy look Alfred was regarding her with. Honestly…he was going to be the death of her.

"I ain't angry," she said finally. "But I suggest ya don't do this again if you want to keep it that way."

Al blinked comically, his eyebrows rising as he pushed himself from the wall. "Definitely. Man, my nose hurts."

"Your fault," she said as she picked up her rifle, stored it and started towards the club.

Cajun translations in order: This is taking forever, No way, Pouting

Chapter Text

Alfred woke slowly, feeling as though there was an anvil sitting on his nose. Carefully working moisture into his mouth, he reached up, gingerly touching the thick white bandage Mattie had taped in place the night before. Breathing without his mouth open was out of the question for the moment; it wasn't exactly cool or heroic, but there was no avoiding it. The encounter with Menewa seemed like a year ago when in reality it had only been...

He lifted his head to look at the clock. Five hours. Nope. Not getting up yet.

Rolling onto his side, he settled against the cool, welcoming expanse of Dixie's exposed back, curling an arm over her with a drowsy smile. This was how it should be: the two of them, warm and cozy with no enemies at the door and nothing to pull them from bed. They started out in separate rooms since Mattie, Francis and Artie were there with them, but shortly before midnight, she slipped noiselessly into the room, curling up beside him; Alfred was only too happy to share.

She shifted at his touch, barely managing to open her eyes. "S'wrong?" she mumbled, not quite conscious enough to form a full sentence. Her accent was always ridiculously thick when she was sleepy.

"Nothing; it's okay," he answered quietly, settling in. "Go back to sleep, babe. We don't have to get up yet."

"Mmmn, sounds good." She turned to face him, burrowing in close against his chest. He sighed when he felt her warm, moist breath against his collarbone. "How's yer nose?"

"Better. I think it'll be done healing by breakfast." Letting his eyes drift closed, he perched his chin on top of her head, taking in the familiar smell of gunpowder and whiskey that seemed to follow her everywhere. "Might be a little more crooked, but that's fine."

Dixie snorted softly. "Maybe it'll make ya look more dangerous."

"Better dangerous than disfigured."

Ducking out from under his chin, she tilted her head back, studying him carefully. "Y'think it'll look bad?" When he merely shrugged, she pulled a hand from under the blankets, gingerly lifting the bandage to peer underneath. "Dun look bad. Prolly won even be noticeable."

"Good."

"An' since it is my fault ya got pulled inta that fight…" Gently pushing him onto his back, Dixie shifted so she was draped over him like a human sheet, a smile playing around her mouth. "The least I ken do is help aid yer recovery."

Reaching up, he ran his fingers through her hair, combing it away from her face. "Is that a fact. And how do you plan to do that?"

She tugged the bandage aside, stretching forward to place a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose. "Thassa start," she murmured, smiling slyly. "Rest'll prolly come in the form a me breakin' Menewa's dick off next time I run inta him."

Alfred smiled and pressed his lips to hers. God, she tasted good. Alfred brushed his thumb over her cheek as she tilted her head to the side to avoid rubbing noses with him as she pressed her lips to his, though the kiss was no less intense. The fingers in her hair kept her from pulling away as his free hand slipped up her bare stomach. Shifting, she gently cupped his face in both hands, transitioning the kisses from rapid and hungry to slow and deliberate.

"I'll say this," he muttered, disengaging just long enough to draw a breath. "This is one of the better ways I've woken up."

"Issat a fact," she said, echoing his use of the phrase. Pressing the softest kiss possible on the end of his nose, Dixie smirked. "Maybe-"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Alfred Jones, get your lazy arse up out of that bed this bloody instant! I'm coming in there to kick you all the way to your stupid Nantucket if you don't answer me, godammit!"

For the barest second, both of them froze, staring at each other in wordless shock. In the next instant, his heart remembered to keep beating, and he found his voice. "Gimme a second to put something on!" he called back, sounding slightly panicked.

Dixie pushed off him as he sat up, tossing the covers off both of them. Rising fluidly to his feet, he snatched his pants from where he had abandoned them the night before. As he tugged them on, Dixie dropped to the floor and rolled out of sight beneath the bed, leaving not even a whisper of her presence behind. Al crossed the room, glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn't visible, took a deep breath and opened the door.

He grinned and laughed as obnoxiously as possible, rubbing the back of his head. "Something wrong, bro?"

Artie looked pissed. Then again, he always looked pissed. He really needed to tweeze those caterpillars above his eyes. He'd probably find a girlfriend that way and get some tail. Maybe then he'd be less uppity. "Yes something is bloody wrong! Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Uh, nine...forty."

"Yes, it's nine forty. Well done, that education system of yours did bloody wonders. Now make yourself presentable, will you? We have company, and I doubt they want to see you strutting about half bloody naked like some bloody rooster."

You're just jealous cause I'm getting tail, Limey. "Sure, just gimme about five minutes. I'll grab Dix on the way. Are Mattie and Francis up yet?"

"Yes, unlike some people we keep to a proper schedule. I'm surprised Dixie isn't out yet. She's usually up before all of us. I hope she hasn't become ill. Perhaps I should have Mathew check up on her before you go blundering in there."

Shit. "Uh...probably all this drama. You know what it does to girls. Am I right, bro?" he chuckled nervously.

"Yes, yes, you're bloody brilliant as always. Just get ready. By the by, your fly's open."

"Sonofa-" Shutting the door with his foot, already correcting the wardrobe malfunction, Alfred turned to where Dixie was easing out from beneath the bed.

"Seriously," she drawled with a smirk. "'Drama'? Ya couldn't think a anythin' else?"

"Shut up." He laughed.

They both emerged fifteen minutes later, dressed and giving no indication of the near miss from earlier. Al was wearing jeans and a Marvel shirt covered in all of his favorite superheroes. Dixie had on sweats, a US Marines shirt and a towel wrapped around her head from the quick shower. Her skin was a light shade of pink from the hot shower. Judging from the masses of hair in the bathroom trash, she'd probably taken her knife to it again. The others were in a similar state of dress. Mattie was in lounge pants and a Fall Out Boy shirt, Arthur was wearing shredded jeans and a tshirt with holes in it, and Francis was in a frilly pink bathrobe with his hair in a towel as well. Their two guests had their backs to them. Whoever they were, they had long black hair and were wearing a lot of denim and leather.

Al followed Dixie to the mini kitchen, waiting until she handed him a paper plate to start shoveling on the good stuff. It all looked pretty damn delicious. Mattie's pancakes were there and so were Francis' famous breakfast crepes filled with three different cheeses and ham and beef. Alfred made sure there were no petrified lumps of couch stuffing being put on his plate before moving to stand behind Dixie as she made eggs sunny side up with some bacon. Jesus, this woman was perfect. Why hadn't he kissed her sooner?!

"I'm real sorry ya'll had to get involved and come all the way out here," Dixie said, smiling self-deprecatingly as she added bacon fat and butter to the pan before adding in the eggs. "This's my fault; I should be dealin' with this myself."

"This is hardly your fault, love," Artie said as he sat down with Matt and Francis at a table. "If anything, it's all that bastard Creek nation's fault."

"He should've known better than to mess with you in the first place, am I right?" Al grinned, winking at her as he looked her over. She was beautiful, even like this. "Trust me, we're gonna go all ninja superhero team on his ass. He'll be sorry he ever heard your name."

"By ze way, Dixie, I noticed you 'ave no 'air products in ze washroom. Are you out? You may use mine if you like?"

Oh Jesus fucking fuck. If Francis found out about how Dix took care of herself, he'd have an aneurysm. He nearly killed over back when he learned about Artie's simplistic routine.

"I don't use that stuff," Dixie said as five eggs and six pieces of bacon were put on a plate and handed to Al. Sweet! At least he got some food before the shitstorm. "Lye soap works just fine for everything."

Francis actually stood up, his face pale. Here we go. "Mon dieu! No wonder your skin and 'air are so dry and dull! You may as well beat it with a rock! Let me see ze damage. Alles! Take it off," he snapped, tugging at the towel on her head.

"Ouch! Goddammit, France! Let go a me! Stop!" Dixie started swatting at him with the spatula, trying to get him away from her.

France looked nearly ready to faint when it came off. "Oh, chérie, zis is worse than I tho- Did you cut your 'air?!"

"Yeah," Dixie huffed. "Was gettin' too long."

"You're worse zen Arthur. Black sheep, I take back everything I ever said about your maintenance routine! After zis is all over, you are learning 'ow to properly maintain yourself. No more of zis lye business."

"Says who?" Dixie snapped as she pulled out three pieces of bacon and a single serving of scrambled eggs. She sat those to the side as she shut off the stovetop and faced Francis, hands on her hips. Alfred stepped out of the way, grabbing a mug to get some coffee or some orange juice. Either one worked.

"Moi."

Alfred got out of there and moved to the table. As soon as Alfred sat down and actually saw who the "guests" were, he immediately looked over to see if Dixie was armed. Shit, she was. There sat two proud Native American tribes: Apache and Commanche. Maybe he could sneak the guns away while she was sitting down. Last time he checked, they were settled in the Oklahoma and Texas areas. What were they doing in New York? Al couldn't help but smile though. These guys taught him a lot about himself, so it was good to see them again. He stood and hugged them, telling them how great it was to see them and that he missed them. They told him much of the same, saying he looked so much like his mother and that he looked good. It was great to feel so...accepted and at home, for once.

Now he just had to keep Dixie from unloading a full clip in them. Ever since the War of 1812, Dixie had a deep seated hatred for Indians. All Indians. Even the ones she fought with on the same side in the war. He understood it somewhat, especially after what happened at Fort Mims. But it was also petty of her to hate an entire race—his first culture—just because of one man's evil. That war changed her though. She took every possible opportunity to get back at Native Americans in spades. She burned villages and hung women and children in her first years after the rape. She came off it though…eventually. It was just...one of those things.

"Over my dead body!" They were still arguing? Damn, how long had he zoned out?

"Sit down, both of you," Mattie snapped loudly. Damn, Al forgot his brother could actually be that loud outside of a military setting. "It's like babysitting toddlers sometimes, I swear."

Dixie smacked Francis with the spatula one last time before retreating to the table. Alfred braced himself for the ultimate fight. He watched warily as Dix froze when she saw who their guests were. Mechanically, she sat between him and Mattie and put her gun on the table. Good, she was getting better. She knew not to trust herself with a gun in this moment. They all watched in uneasy silence as she poured herself half a mug of coffee before getting up, grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniel's from the fridge and filling the mug the rest of the way.

When the mug was full, she took a swig from the whiskey bottle before looking up at Apache and Comanche darkly. "The hell're ya'll doin' here?" Dixie asked darkly.

"Francis told us of the situation with Creek nation. He's never been the same since the traditionalists rallied," Apache supplied. "I think you should know, he is a good man. He's just been misled and twisted."

"You wanna tell me the man who raped and scalped me, who butchered the people I loved before my eyes...is a 'good man'?"

Apache was a middle aged man with tan weathered skin, a large nose and big, expressive brown eyes. His smile had always been a bit crooked in a grandpa kind of way that made him lovable and not creepy. His hair was long and black with a single braid of silver tucked behind his ear. He actually looked really badass in the biker gear he was sporting. Bikes always were his thing. He said it made him feel like he was riding horses again. Of the two, Apache was probably the more compassionate one. He dealt with discrimination and racism in stride all his life.

"No, Ms. Bohannon. What he did was unforgivable, and we are truly sorry for what happened to you. I simply wish to tell you that he is not the monster you perceive. He's a nation, just like all of us. I'm asking you to show mercy."

Dixie snorted. "You know me better'n 'at, Apache."

She reached for the bottle again, but Mattie was quick enough to snatch it and put it out of arms reach. Al gave him a cheesy grin and a thumbs up, trying to lighten the tense mood. "Are you here to help us?" Mattie asked, glaring at Dixie when she tried to get the booze back.

"Zey 'elped Menewa get back on 'is feet after 'e was left for dead on ze battlefield. Zey 'ave been keeping in touch wit 'im too."

The temperature dropped a good ten degrees. Alfred gripped Dixie's leg under the table, reminding her to stay as civil as possible. The look on her face was lethal. If she didn't need their help, she'd probably put bullets in their brains without batting an eye. She was no stranger to killing in cold blood. That was who she was.

"Why didn't you tell us he was still alive?" Alfred asked, rubbing his hand over her thigh, trying to calm her down.

"He didn't want to be noticed. He knew that if word got out Ms. Bohannon would just hunt him down to finish the job." That was Comanche.

"Damn straight."

Al squeezed her leg sharply as a warning for that smartass remark, making her wince and smack his arm away.

Comanche looked to be about Francis' age and was insanely tall. Like, 6'3" tall. He was the definition of a warrior. He had a long, stern face and a jagged scar under his left cheekbone. He was muscular and had sharp golden eyes with long hair in a ponytail with a feather hanging loosely in it. He was wearing a suit too. Alfred went deer hunting with him just a few months ago down in the southeast parts of Oklahoma. They shot a sick six-point buck.

"It wasn't easy either. What you did to him was-"

"Comanche, we did not come to quarrel with them. We came to help."

Dixie grinned. "Then maybe you shoulda left him there to die."

"What happened after you nursed him back to health?" Mattie asked, trying to reign everyone in.

"I didn't hear from him again until the 20s. He was trying to avoid the draft for the Great War because he said he had a pregnant wife," Apache shrugged. "Next time I heard from him, he was trying to start a Native American rights movement...around the late 70s and early 80s I think."

"Look, dudes, I get it," Al leaned forward. "Tribes stick together. Mom taught me the same thing, but...you are aware of what he's done, right? He's killed people. Innocent people."

"We are."

"And you still helped him?! The hell is your problem!" Dixie snapped.

"Quiet," Alfred snapped, using his military tone he rarely used, especially not with her. She looked more pissed than scared, but she obeyed.

"He is our Brother. We must help each other when we can."

"Would you help him after all this?"

They paused. Apache spoke for them. "If he was in need, yes. However, we signed a Treaty. We are your subordinates now, and we must adhere to your laws."

"So you'll help us?" Arthur asked.

"Only if he gets a trial," Comanche snapped.

"We'll try, bro. Promise."

For a moment, no one said a word. Then Mattie broke the silence. "Why don't we start with where he's hiding in New York."

Comanche spoke: "He and I had lunch at the hotel he's living in. I was here on business with my law firm when we bumped into each other."

"That ain't no coincidence," Dixie huffily hissed under her breath.

"What hotel?"

"The Hotel at Times Square."

"Damn, isn't that expensive? Where's he getting all the bloody money for this?"

"He asked for money, and we gave what we could."

Alfred could practically hear Dixie rolling her eyes. Then she actually spoke. "Doubt he's still there. Now that he's run into us, he'll change up his habits. He always was good at keepin' a low profile. He's a hunter. An Indian hunter…which means he's unpredictable. He ain't got no set routine. And we ain't got the manpower to have someone stake out the hotel. Our government's spread thin as is. 'Cept the IRS, but they're a bunch of desk pussies."

"We're trying to help you catch him, Confederacy," Apache said tiredly, looking at her with patience and disdain. "Some respect and patience would be appreciated."

Dixie slammed her hands down on the table and stood, shoving her chair to the floor. Al jumped as did everyone else. "If it weren't fer you two we wouldn't fucking have this problem! He. Should've. Died!" Her voice broke. "He will die. There will be no fuckin' trial 'cuz this time I'll make sure he's dead." She marched off, disappearing into the bunker.

"She's quite...spirited," Apache muttered. "As always."

"Dude, you have no idea."

Menewa strolled leisurely through the front doors of the hotel, offering a polite nod to the man behind the counter. Vaguely, he wondered if the man ever learned his name during his six month stay...no, he didn't think so. Ah well; the more anonymous, the better. Menewa knew him though. He made sure he knew every one of the people he had several interactions with. Suddenly seeming to come awake as he recognized him, the clerk came around the podium.

"Mr. Abernathy, you have a message."

"Is that so? I don't usually get messages." Intriguing. And certainly an unexpected turn of events. Feeling a little thrill run through his gut, he altered his path and met him halfway. "From whom?"

Passing the folded note over, the clerk shrugged. "I think he said his name was...Paruuku?" A Brother nation? Why would he seek him out? "All he said was that I was to give the message to you as soon as you got back, and it couldn't wait."

"Thank you. And a fine job you did, too." Turning away, he headed off down the hall, reading as he went.

Met with Bohannon. She's going to come to you tomorrow. I know you'll be looking forward to it.

Menewa didn't bother to hide the large shit eating grin that spread across his face. Especially when his Brother nation had left coordinates to her precise location as an added bonus. He crumpled the note into a ball with one hand, still smiling as he plotted out the hours ahead. He would pack up and leave tonight and go to his secondary residence. Then, when she arrived to confront him, he would take her by surprise.

Menewa chuckled to himself as he tossed the note into the trash. If he played his cards right, tonight could see the end of centuries worth of meticulous planning and legwork. He was almost sad to see it end, but all good things had to. He pulled fresh clothes from his suitcase, making sure both shirt and pants were black; it wouldn't do to stand out when he was attempting to sneak. And to get close enough to strike at Confederacy, he'd have to be sneakier than ever before.

Upon nearing the coordinates, Menewa ditched his vehicle and started walking. It was a densely wooded area far outside civilization. He was skillfully silent as he avoided making tracks, using his former skills as a hunter to silently blend as he stepped off the beaten path. He ducked when a car drove by and promptly chose to follow the slow moving SUV. He wasn't disappointed. It stopped in front of what looked like a tornado cellar door built into a hill. He got on his stomach, careful to remain both silent and hidden.

His heart rate skyrocketed as Ms. Bohannon emerged from the backseat, those sharp blue eyes scanning the area as she drew her weapon. So America was with her? His suspicions were confirmed when that familiar cowlick emerged behind her. Satisfaction settled in the form of a pleasant warmth in his chest as he looked at his prey. She really had turned into a stunning creature. It was like watching a mighty lion roaming the wilds of its home from the scope of a rifle. The only difference is that his lioness hadn't yet realized she was in a cage, and it was slowly closing in around her.

Waiting until they were inside and the car drove off, he got to his feet and brushed himself off. He wouldn't attack her at this barricade. It was highly likely that such a bunker was well armed, and he didn't want to risk the chance that his quarry would be armed to the teeth. A very safe bet.

"Dixie, mon petite belle?"

Dixie glanced up from her book to see France leaning in the doorway of her room. She had been hiding out since the meeting, not wanting to talk to or see anyone. Especially not Alfred. She couldn't believe he didn't take her side on this. She also hated him for being so fuking chummy with her sworn enemies. Of course the one to disrupt her would be the one without any personal boundaries. She sighed and put a bookmark at her place before shutting the novel loudly and sitting up on her bed.

"The hell you want, France?"

"It's time." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Time fer ya ta leave? Yeah, I'd say so."

"Come with me."

Dixie spotted the towel on his shoulder then. He'd been trying to hide it from her. She couldn't believe he was actually serious about washing her hair. She reached for her gun before realizing it was still on the table in the front room. Shit.

"No." She stood and took a step back.

"Ohonhon, you 'ave no choice."

Dixie jumped up on the bed as he advanced towards her with that smug grin of his. She could definitely take him down in a gun fight, but she was a lot smaller than France, giving him an upper hand in hand-to-hand combat. If she could just slip by him, she could get her gun and hold him off for as long as possible. Maybe for once today Alfred would actually help her out on something.

"Oh, quit being so over dramatic. It's just a little 'air and skin product. It's not poison."

"That ain't the point," she snapped. She saw an opportunity when he reached to adjust the towel on his shoulder. She made a run for it, shoving France to get him out of the way. But instead of flailing and falling, he wrapped his arms around her and hefted her up over his shoulder. Not this nonsense again. Dixie started kicking and struggling, yelling with all her might, but the bastard held on.

"Mon Dieu, I'm not going to torture you, Dixie!" France grunted as he shut them in her en suite bathroom and locked the door.

He put her down at the sink, forcing her to bend over as he turned on the faucet. He put the towel around her shoulders and was surprisingly gentle as he guided her head under the stream of- "Jesus! That's cold, dammit!" Dixie yelled as she tried to jerk back.

"'old still. You're making a mess," he snapped, holding her by the back of her neck. "Zis is a satin blouse I'm wearing, you know. It doesn't do well in ze water."

Sighing in defeat, Dixie let her head drop as she relaxed. She listened as he reached past her, retrieving a large white bottle. As soon as he opened it, she groaned. It smelled like chemicals and hair dye. She grimaced as he clicked the cap shut and braced herself for an assault. He was surprisingly gentle as he carded his fingers through her hair. She relaxed significantly. One reason she never went to salons was because of the way they roughly scrapped at her scalp. It...caused flashbacks. When he started rinsing it out, she watched the slightly grimy water with mild interest.

France repeated the process again with the same stuff, but then he got a new bottle. The stuff he squeezed out looked like animal fat but smelled only mildly of chemicals and more like flowers. He coated his palms before meticulously coating her hair in the heavy substance. When he washed it out, her hair felt heavier as it fell around her face. France then cleaned her ears and wrapped her hair, finally allowing her to raise up.

She stared at him huffily as he squeezed her hair, but then he paused, running a thumb over the dark, raised scar at her hairline. "I was the first one to conquer you…" Dixie's body locked up, and she forcefully smacked his hand away from her, taking several steps back as she did so. He looked startled, and Dixie suddenly felt very, very vulnerable. She went to the door hurriedly and opened it, instantly feeling more at ease.

"Je suis désolé, Dixie. Nous sommes amis...oui?"

Dixie paused. He was using those goddamn puppy eyes on her. The ones that made Britain swear to carve his eyes out. She didn't mean to make him upset, but he just wouldn't listen to her! "Oui."

"Magnifique!" France cackled as he grabbed her and pulled her back into the bathroom.

"Goddammit, France!"

Alfred looked up from the map he and Tex were looking over at the sound of two pairs of feet. It had been a good twenty minutes since Francis had gone to wash Dixie's hair, and from the sound of things, she hadn't gone willingly. He was worried for a while that she had killed him. However, his fears were proven wrong when aforementioned nation swooped in dramatically. He looked like he tried to take a bath in his own clothes.

"Viola! My masterpiece!"

Dixie came in, slouching grumpily in the doorway, hands in her pockets and wet towel around her shoulders. He did a double take at the sight of her hair. It was a more vibrant platinum blonde, and it looked shiny and sleek in the artificial light. He could only imagine what it looked like in the sun. It was all straight and flat except for a single cowlick that stuck out at the back of her head. Damn, Al really wanted to run his fingers through her hair while he fucked her senseless. No, chill boner. Chill.

"The plan ready?" Dixie asked in her usual low drawl.

"Uh...y-yeah. Totally ready. Y'know a hero like me always comes prepared," he said, laughing nervously.

"Well done," Mattie snorted under his breath. "Pants feeling tight?"

"Fuck you, bro."

"Cosette here?" Dixie grumbled as she grabbed a bottle of scotch from the fridge and a chilled tumbler from the freezer.

"Yup!" Cosette yelled from the floor where she was surrounded by spreadsheets.

"Let's get this over with then."

Alfred nodded, taking his signature hero stance. "There are four locations of interest," he said, indicating four locations on the large map with plastic red flags. "Our office, the hotel Menewa is at, the storage locker he bought—which we found thanks to good ole Issy's cyber snooping—and the bar he frequents."

"Courtesy of my lads at MI6."

"Cocky as ever, eh, Britian?"

"Shut it, frog! When's the last time your bloody intelligence agencies ever did something remotely fucking important!"

"Never," Cosette chimed.

"Why must you betray me, Colette?" Francis wailed, dramatically feigning injury.

"I told you it's Cosette. Get it right and maybe I'll dignify that with an answer."

"Dudes, focus. You can bitch later. Now, Dix brought up the point that, now that we know where he's holed up, he's likely to either move or set a trap."

"Maybe going on the offensive isn't the best course of action," Mattie inserted from where he was reading something on his tablet. He always had been the peacemaker.

France frowned. "So are we about to lose 'im again?"

"On the contrary." A tiny, devious smirk touched Texas' lips, mischief clear in his expression. "He's gonna come to us an' play himself right into our trap." He glanced around the table. "There are gonna be specific teams for this. Matt, you'll be working with mamma. France will go with me and Cosette to handle communications and be the lookout team. Britain and dad will be the last team."

Curious, Britain tilted his head to the side. "And what are America and I doing, exactly?"

Alfred grinned. "Matt and Dix are the best gun users we've got, so they're the main attraction. You and I are there to take care of the light show."

Issy is Alfred's nickname for Israel other than the more personal "Hana", a shortened version of her human name, Hosha'na

Chapter Text

When Cossette jumped off the dumpster, Archie turned from where he stood watch and checked his sister's work. The small surveillance camera was nearly invisible in the dark alley. The only sign it was there was the occasional blink of a tiny red light. Archie leaned forward, scrutinizing her placement and the sturdiness of her work. "Looks good." Stepping back, the younger state glanced briefly around the area. "C'mon, let's get the next one set up and get back to the surveillance van. Being out here's givin' me the creeps."

Cossette snickered as they headed off around the back of the building. "Afraid a big bad monster's gonna jump out a'cha? You're worse than that spineless cunt, France."

Rolling his eyes, Archie tucked his hands into his jean pockets, watching his booted feet to avoid any unpleasant-looking objects or puddles of unidentifiable liquid. "Why d'you still treat him like that? I think he proved he can be a pretty nice guy when he saved your ass in Normandy by taking a sniper bullet to the chest for you. Also recall ya cryin' while holdin' him. Ya owe 'im some forgiveness."

"He left me when I needed him. He sold me like a fucking discount slave just to get money for his fucking war with Britain," Cossette shot back. "He doesn't deserve my respect."

Archibald shook his head, giving up. There was just no reasoning with her when came to France kinda like how it was with momma and Native Americans. Both were very stubborn when it came to their hatred. Stopping halfway around the rear of the building, he pressed himself to the wall and glanced around before motioning for them to step out onto the street. Their surveillance van was across from the bar Menewa was reportedly known to frequent.

Dixie lay perfectly still on a blanket, her rifle casually resting on its stand as the butt rested in the crook of her neck and the muzzle hung out past the roof's edge. She was wearing black cargo pants and a black muscle shirt with her Confederate coat draped over her upper half, shielding her face and arms from the cold winter breeze and acting as a blanket. She'd been there since five that morning, watching for any sign that Menewa had prematurely walked into their trap. Quiet, odd-sounding footsteps approached from behind. Dixie peeked out just as hot coffee was offered.

Mattie got down beside her, scope in hand and he hunkered down and curled up under his own winter-protection. "Alfred has most of the alleyways within a two-mile radius blocked off with temporary fences," he reported. "The only way in and out is the street."

"Good. What about the cameras?"

"Ready and monitoring." He slid his hands into his pockets, purple eyes seeming to glow in the dark as they flitted from place to place, studying the street below. "As soon as he passes one, we'll see it."

"And everyone else that's passin' by. It's happy hour," she grumbled, watching through her scope as people walked up and down the streets and cars passed by, oblivious to the fact that someone was watching them through the hairs on a sniper's rifle scope.

"Can you still get a shot off in all that mess?"

Dixie snorted. "Course I can."

A long, calming silence passed over them as they continued watching the streets. He turned to her with a smirk on his face and a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, have you had makeup sex with Al yet?"

Dixie had chosen the worst time to take a drink of coffee. She choked as the hot liquid shot down her windpipe and then came back up. She stared at him, wide eyed as heat enveloped her cheeks. It was supposed to be secret! Had she gotten drunk and blabbed to him? She didn't recall being that drunk. At least not since Italy. Maybe Alfred spilled the beans then? Unlikely. He knew how to keep secrets when he wanted to, and they both agreed now wasn't the time to come out about their new relationship.

"It's obvious you two are screwing around, y'know. There's a lot less sexual tension, and I know sex glow when I see it. You have it a lot now."

Well shit. "We're tryin' ta keep it quiet till this dies down."

"I'm just upset you didn't tell me. We're best friends, right? I'm a bit hurt."

"We are. It's just...now ain't a good time."

"I noticed," he commented dryly. "So…have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Had makeup sex. Ever since the meeting with...y'know...you two have been edgy. You didn't sneak into his room last night either."

"Oh God, you knew about that too?" Dixie groaned, resting her head on her rifle in dismay. She sighed in defeat. At least he would stay quiet and she could have someone to talk to. He was her most trusted confidante, and she was his. "No, we haven't. We ain't talked much either. I just...I dunno. Seeing that disappointed look when I started talkin' and snapped at 'em kinda fucked me wrong. No pun intended. I just feel like...like he doesn't get it, y'know? I wasn't raised by them like ya'll was. I ain't got no good memories of Indians. I try...I really do, but..."

"He knows you're trying. Give him some credit. This is just a tough time…for both of us. We have to fight an old family friend and possibly kill him. Just give him some time to adjust. You should-"

The rest of his words were drowned out by an ear-splitting explosion from the floor below them in the abandoned restaurant they were perched on. She tensed as the building shifted slightly. Wordlessly, they picked themselves up, sprinting for the door and down the emergency stairs to investigate. Dixie used the rail as a pivot point while Matt simply vaulted over the railing to land on the stairs below.

The radio in her ear crackled. "Mom, what's happening?! That was your building." Texas' voice was full of concern, the pitch of his southern drawl almost a full octave higher than usual. "Do you copy?"

"We're fine." She had to keep her voice calm. "Stay put. So far, this is like the cafe in Italy, but he could have somethin' up his sleeve. I'll check in soon as possible, but hold position until told otherwise."

"Yes, ma'am."

Smoke lay thick and heavy in the air already, dust still flying as they reached the main room. Britain was regaining his footing, coughing and covered in dust and soot. Matt got a hand under his arm to help him stand. "Kitchen," the island nation choked out, covering his mouth and nose with one hand. "Came from the kitchen."

The moment she knew Britain was unscathed, Dixie's eyes were searching the smoke-clogged room for Alfred. No...where was he?! Dark blue eyes widened as they swept over the room again, her heart starting to hammer with fear and worry. What if he'd been close to the kitchen door when the explosion went off? Taking a few steps towards the kitchen door—visibility shifting with the smoke around her—she at last spotted the partially-obscured shock of wheat blonde hair behind the bar. Alfred was half-crouched, eyes on the door hanging askew into the kitchen area. He glanced briefly in her direction, lifting a finger to his lips. Dixie nodded, swinging her legs over the bar and slipping into the space behind it with him.

"Did anyone report seeing him?"

"No, the radio's been silent till now." Dixie drew a handgun from her left shoulder holster, hefting it to check that it was loaded. With the comforting weight in her palm, her mind began to work more clearly. More like a soldier. "I gave them orders to stand by."

He drew his own gun, shucking off his suit shirt and leaving him in a white wife beater. "All right, he's said his hello. I think it's time to respond." He was the first through the door into the kitchen. Greasy smoke hung near the ceiling like an ominous thunderhead, more was still leaking from the mangled oven.

Crossing gingerly to the tangled wreck of metal, Dixie switched off the gas before bending to look inside. "It's the same jury-rigged time delay fuse as in Italy."

"So that's two counts of destruction of private property we can add to the list of offenses." He moved towards the far end of the kitchen, boots crunching on glass shattered by the blast. "Clear the room. I don't think he'd have stuck around, but-"

"'e's in ze stairwell!" France's voice crackled.

"What?!" Texas snapped.

"Shit, he blew up the stove as a diversion. Dixie-"

"Goin'," Dixie murmured, before heading for the stairs. "Matt, with me."

Alfred watched her run back towards the stairs. Beside him, Britain was crouching in front of a bag filled with magic stuff. "That's a bloody cheeky trick he's got with that jury-rigged bomb."

A loud crash sounded from the second floor. Head snapping upward, Alfred tensed visibly. Over the sound of footsteps came another noise: a slam and then the familiar crack of a gunshot. Gritting his teeth, Alfred vaulted onto one of the tables in the center of the room. "No kidding. C'mon, get up here."

A foot stomped twice from above, too rhythmically to be coincidence. That was the signal. They had him pinned. Setting himself firmly in place, Al laced his fingers together. For another ten seconds, the sounds of gunfire overhead continued. Arthur planted his right foot in the impromptu foothold of Al's hands. He put a stabilizing hand on the ceiling as he started to chant some spell or incantation in his freaky-speak under his breath. Suddenly a hole appeared in the ceiling with a faint crackle of green light. Then he stuck his hand out and chanted until his whole hand was engulfed in blue flames.

"DOWN!" he shouted and then shot the fire forward in a rope of intense heat. They didn't hang around to watch the effects, heading for the stairs and taking two at a time. There was no knowing if Dixie and Mattie were hurt until he and Artie got up there. Skidding to halt in the open doorway at the end of the hall, Al was instantly searching for any sign of his worst fear.

On the far side of the room, Matt stood in a combat-ready stance over a groaning Menewa. The man lay on the floor, arms wrapped around his scorched side, face contorted in pain. A few meters inside the door, just beginning to move from her position behind an overturned table was Dixie. She climbed slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving the injured man across the room. His eyes followed her movements. "You alright?"

"M'fine," she answered tonelessly. "Just a few bumps and bruises. I smell like a smokehouse."

"Good. How do you suggest we proceed?"

"I think I'll talk to the son of a bitch."

Not the response he had expected. In fact, he expected that he'd have to drag her out of the room before she killed the asshole. He followed her across the room, keeping her within grabbing distance if she went for Menewa's throat or vice versa. As much as he trusted her to keep a level head, the thought of her getting so close to her stalker made him nervous.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon," Dixie said casually, stopping a bare meter away from the man on the ground. She folded her hands over her chest, her posture relaxed. "Though I s'pose ya did say you'd be back fer me."

He managed to shoot her a dignified look. "I always keep my promises when it comes to vengeance, dearest," he ground out between clenched teeth. "My little streak of late should be proof enough of that."

"'Cept when it lands ya in a situation like this." Taking a pair of handcuffs from her back pocket, Dixie tossed them to Matt. "Get 'im secured. He ain't runnin' again."

Chuckling under his breath as Matt crouched to restrain him, maliciously digging a knee into his gut, Menewa kept his eyes on Dixie, madness gleaming behind the black irises. "My dear, what makes you think I can run in this condition?"

There was a soft clink as Arthur carefully sat down his bag of tricks, eyes glancing uncertainly from Menewa to Dixie and back again. Matt hefted Menewa up onto his ass before touching his bloodied shoulder. Alfred nodded when they made eye contact, giving him permission to go get cleaned up downstairs. Surprisingly, Artie went with him, leaving Alfred, Dixie and Menewa alone.

Moving forward, Alfred stopped beside Dixie. "What do you think?" he murmured. "Want to call the FBI to pick him up, or just drag him there?"

"The second option has a nice, dramatic ring to it," she answered, her voice under careful control. "But that'd draw too much attention, not to mention transportin' him ourselves would be a hassle." She took her eyes from Menewa to glance in his direction. "I can live with lettin' the feds take it from here."

"I don't mean to interrupt," Menewa interjected. "But I'd like to voice my opinion." He shifted to sit with legs crossed and hands cuffed in front of him. "Given that it's my freedom on the line, I think it only fair that I should have a say."

Alfred snorted. "If I wanted your opinion, I'd-" He broke off, staring as Menewa lifted the hem of his left pant leg, exposing a row of six grenades attached to his calf. He felt Dixie freeze up beside him. Felt her muscles begin to tremble under her skin.

Grinning, the would-be prisoner twirled a thin string around his finger. "You would what, America? Ask for it?" He grinned widely. "Well, why don't you do that, because if you don't, I'm going to give this a tug and none of us will make it out of this room alive. Not even you." He canted his head. "There's only so much a nation can take. Especially one in your condition."

Fighting the urge to grit his teeth, Alfred took a deep breath. "Alright, what's your opinion?"

"It's not so much an opinion as what you're going to do." His voice and face grew serious as he nodded towards Dixie. "Ms. Bohannon will un-cuff me, and then cuff herself. Behind your back, mind you. Then she and I will walk out, and no one will make any sort of move to stop me."

Alfred shot a glance to his right where Dixie stood stone-faced and glaring. "I can't accept that."

"Oh. I'm sorry, America, you appear to have misunderstood." His eyes turned as cold and hard as ice. "You don't have a choice."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to leave them up there alone with him?" Looking back over his shoulder as he descended the stairs, Mathew frowned worriedly.

"Don't worry about it, lad," Arthur stopped at the foot of the stairs with a paternal smile as he patted Matt's back. "They can handle themselves just fine. Sit down, and I'll dress that for you."

Mathew's returned smile didn't last long. He was still worried about those two. Neither of them were known for their level heads in situations like this. Especially in situations like this. He sat down and rolled up his sleeve carefully, trying not to hiss as he peeled the fabric of his shirt from the injury. Then he glanced past Arthur's shoulder. "Jesus Christ."

"What?"

Dixie was slowly walking down the stairs with a gun pressed to her temple. Her eyes screamed fear and outrage. The one holding the gun was Menewa, looking as smug as ever though a little worse for wear after Matt had gotten ahold of him. Then there was Alfred who led the entourage. His barely reigned-in cold fury was enough to make Matt balk. He hadn't seen that look since…since 9/11. God, he looked ready to paint the walls with Menewa's organs. He looked half mad. Pairs of green and purple eyes flitted from person to person as Menewa kept a tight grip on her arm, using her as a meat shield as he limped down the last step, her gun in his hand.

"What the bloody hell is going on?!" Arthur demanded.

Hands held warily at shoulder height, Alfred shot them a warning glare. If looks could kill, they'd all be dead. "Stay where you are, both of you."

"Yes, do as you're told, Britain, Canada." Grinning over Dixie's shoulder, Menewa waved the handgun warningly. "Because if the stories I've heard about you are true, then you two would love to try and play hero right about now." His smile dropped away as he pushed the muzzle of Dixie's weapon under her chin, pressing his face up against hers. Even at a distance, the sudden clench in her jaw was obvious, her eyes going to the ceiling to focus on keeping calm. She looked like she was about to start hyperventilating. "And I daresay, that would be a very bad decision on your part. Just stay put," Menewa smiled in satisfaction, then turned his attention back to the two closest to him. "You're rather quiet, America. Nothing to say?"

"I was debating whether or not to give you one last warning," the nation ground out, his voice a full octave lower than usual. He looked and sounded possessed. "There are lookouts. Any exit you try to use, you'll be spotted, and human shield or not, someone will fire on you."

Chuckling softly, Menewa wrapped his arm around Dixie's waist, tugging her closer and brushed his nose along her cheek. Matt watched the revulsion and fear spark on her face just before she shut her eyes, likely trying to shut out the feeling or at least keep them from seeing it. "Oh, I doubt that, America. The only one confident enough to take such a shot is Canada, and even he would think twice about making a move with Ms. Bohannon so close to the line of fire." That leer of a smile spread wider across his face. Matt wasn't one for violence, but he had an overwhelming urge to put him flat on his back. "Just one twitch in the wrong direction, and-"

Alfred spun on the spot, glaring hotly at the tribal personification. "You listen to me, you little shit: anything you do to hurt her, I'll rain down on your head ten times over, if I don't turn you to ash and bone first! You're lucky I can't legally put your head on a pike anymore."

For a long moment, Creek nation merely stared at his enemy, the space between them charged with anger and mutual hate. Then he pulled something from his pocket. Matt thought he heard a click. "Oh, I understand perfectly, America, never fret."

A fraction of a second later, smoke billowed from beside his feet, encompassing the entire room in a matter of five seconds. Shit, smoke bomb. He was trying to make a run for it! Coughing, Matt lunged forward into the smog, altering his path just slightly towards the door Menewa was no doubt heading for. If they couldn't see, then neither could he. The door loomed up, out of the smoke, and Matt stopped himself against it with both hands. There had been no sound of it opening or closing, meaning they were still in the room. Turning, he braced himself against it, purple eyes narrowed and scanning the shifting grey vapor for any sign of the captor or captive. But as the seconds ticked by, the only person to materialize out of the smoke was Alfred, his face grim and eyes furious. He spared Matt a single glance before resuming his scan of the room for any sign of his quarry. For a brief moment, Matt had a fleeting memory of the Pacific Theatre of World War 2 and the look of pure, unreasoning rage and bloodlust Al wore. There was no doubt in his mind that, if anything happened to Dixie, there would be no talking Alfred down this time. There would be no stopping him from killing someone…or a lot of someones.

"Found something," Britain called from a few meters away, his silhouette visible in the fading smoke. He was bent, examining something on the floor. "It's Dixie's personal radio."

"Toss it over." Catching the device easily in one hand, Al brought it to his ear, suddenly all business again. "All lookouts, report. Any sign of him?"

Silence hung in the air. Slowly, fraction by fraction, his brother's disciplined look slipped until all that was left was grim resignation. "Spread out. I want him found." Dragging a hand across his face, Al shook his head. "They never saw them leave. So either he's still here or there's a way out we didn't anticipate. The stakes have just been raised."

"How long do you think we have?" Matt asked.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether he wants to toy with her or not. In the meantime, he'll need a place to hide. We'll find out where that is, corner him and end this before he hurts anyone else."

The exit from the sewer system emerged into a featureless alley, the sky grey overhead with heavy clouds, the sun struggling to break through. Dixie gave brief consideration to making a bid for freedom—just running off toward the nearest street—only to realize Menewa was still holding her weapon and would mostly likely use it before she made it ten feet. He wouldn't kill her with it, of course. She knew he'd go for the knee or foot. Something nonfatal.

Pulling himself from the manhole, the man pulled the cover back into place with great difficulty due to his burn wounds. Good. She hoped it hurt like a bitch. She was going to bathe him in salt and citrus juice when this was all over. "It's certainly not the Presidential Suite," he mused. "But I think it should do nicely for the next day or so." His hand grasped her arm steering her to a plain, wooden door set in a stone wall. "And I daresay it will keep you out of America's sight until I've finished my work."

"I see." Looking up at the blank, grey cinderblock wall for any sort of identifying marks, Dixie kept her tone as neutral as possible. "And where exactly are we?"

Menewa chuckled. "Now, now, my dear, where's the fun in telling you?" The door opened into a small, dim room. "Not to mention, if you were by some chance able to escape my custody, I wouldn't want you to have escape routes planned in advance."

Dixie had to apply conscious effort not to grit her teeth as she stepped into the dark space. There was no denying it now. She was trapped. There was no easy way out any more. She waited, not looking back as he stepped in close behind her. "Speakin' of escape routes, how is it ya knew 'bout the one in the basement?"

There was a jingling of keys, and then the room plunged into shadow as the door was closed, the click of the lock echoing slightly. This had to be what hell felt like: a pitch black place that filled you with dread with each step you took deeper in. "I'm a man of many talents, dearest." His hand descended to her waist, pulling her forward. "Come along, now. I imagine you're tired after losing sleep last night." The darkness gave way to flickering light given off by a string of tungsten lights on the ceiling. Illuminated along the right was a large dog pen from floor to ceiling with a padlock and tiny mattress. It was crudely welded in place by strips of steel.

"I realize this has to be a step down in accommodations for you," he murmured close to her ear. "But I thought you might like a taste of what I've lived with for the past hundred or so years." He pushed her through the open door of the pen. "Welcome to the last room you'll ever need."

Catching her balance, Dixie stood tall, turning to face him as he stood outside her cage. "This ain't gonna end well for you," she said calmly, head held high. "You've made a big mistake in kidnappin' me. When it all comes to a head, only one of us is gonna walk outta this alive."

A slow smile crept across his face. "Such confidence, my dear. Perhaps you haven't realized...there's always the chance I brought you here for a purpose." He stalked into her pen, his steps slow and deliberate. "You see, I know full well that wherever you go, America is sure to follow, no matter the danger. Anything to save you."

She backed away. "He won't come alone," she warned, her voice just as low as his. "And he ain't gonna offer ya a chance to come quietly or negotiate."

"I didn't expect he would."

In an instant, his free hand was on her shoulder, shoving hard and sending her staggering back. Dixie grimaced as the cold metal of her own gun shoved into her chin, disturbingly black eyes hovering inches from her own. "He will come," he said hoarsely, still grinning. "And he will try to save you. He can come with all his friends, but the moment they come through those doors. They're dead."

"No." Forcing herself to look him in the eye, Dixie put as much of an edge to her voice as the gun against her jaw would allow. "This is between you and me. None a the others need ta get hurt. I'm the one you want."

His laugh, unlike before, was darker now. "My dear, if only you knew how true those words were." He leaned close, his forehead brushing against her bangs. A wave of nausea roiled through her gut as her breathing became shallow. "In all the years I spent gathering information, studying you, watching you...I believe I've developed quite the crush. Such strength, such diligence, such loyalty." The fingers of his free hand grasped her hip with bruising force. "It's enough to drive a man insane."

Fighting back her revulsion at his touch, at his closeness, Dixie carefully blanked her expression. "When I send you ta Hell, tell 'em I'm sorry fer the inconvenience."

Hostility flared behind Menewa's eyes mere seconds before he released his grip. Dixie barely had time to be thankful before his fist sank into her solar plexus. Between falling to her knees on the grimy floor and gasping for breath, she barely registered his contemptuous snort. "Strong, diligent, loyal...and unbelievably thick. Accept the fact that you've been caught, Ms. Bohannon. Accept it and wait for your fate."

She still knelt there as he removed the handcuffs and left the cell, the door clanging shut behind him, followed a moment later by the heavy boom of the door.

Alfred could've spotted the other nation from two hundred feet away in a crowd. Gilbert Beilschmidt was not the sort to blend easily with others in public—something he prided himself on. Maybe he wasn't the best option for what was supposed to be a semi-covert operation, but right now, he needed the skills the other man possessed and didn't have time to brief anybody else. Besides, he was already here in the states after watching Dix at the safe house.

Easing his way through the flow of early morning pedestrians, he dropped to a seat at the bistro beside the former knight. "Thanks for meeting me."

"How could I say no ven mein friend is being held hostage? Zis new development...how are you holding up?"

Leaning forward, his elbows braced on the table, Alfred fought hard not to scowl. "About as well as can be expected. We're fairly certain that she's being kept alive for another few days. We'll just have to track her down before he finishes whatever he's doing with her."

"It does seem to be ze only course of action available." For a long moment, he was silent, before shifting. "How in ze ever loving hell did zis happen? Dixie is more zan capable of taking him on, as are you. I should know, I trained you."

A bitter, self-loathing smile twisted his lips. "He goaded us into playing along just long enough for him to gain the upper hand."

"Zen you're both dummkompfs."

He gave a soft 'tsch' of not-quite humor. "Trust me, I'm aware. But at the moment, I'm not even sure where to start looking. Menewa's a sneaky bastard; none of the cameras saw which way he went. We don't know which direction he headed, and even if we had, he would double back, circle, or lay a false trail as easily as breathing."

Gilbert was quiet for a moment, glaring at the table. This is why Alfred needed him. Gilbert was an amazing strategist. He had years of experience doing this sort of thing. "How many possible exits are zere?"

His eyebrow lifted quizzically, but he didn't second-guess the question. He didn't have the luxury. "Two: the front and back doors."

"You have floor plans?"

"Uh...no."

"Mein Gott, you're rusty. How old is ze building?"

"Uh...I think it was built in the eighteen nineties. Why?"

"Ah, he is a sneaky bastard. Back during ze var, ve discovered almost all of your buildings had abandoned basement sewers zat converged with ze ones still in use. Zat is how our spies got in and out so quickly."

Alfred scowled. This was news to him. News that would've been pertinent to share once World War II was over. "And when were you gonna tell me about this?"

Gilbert chuckled nervously. "M-Must've slipped mein awesome mind."

Al rubbed wearily at his forehead, his expression grim. "This is all my fault," he muttered darkly. "He's outsmarted me again. I thought I was ready for it, but he took the tables and flipped them right on top of me."

"Zere is a better time to scold yourself for not being awesome later. Such as ven you've told me exactly vat it is you vant me to do."

His teeth clamped as he realized the irritating former nation was right. Apologies could come later when Dixie was there to hear them. To tell him it was alright while he held her in the safety of his arms. Nothing would feel "alright" until she was back, until she said it was. And that might be a long time in coming.

"I need you to find out how he knew we'd be in that building," he said, forcing an edge of commander's steel into his voice.

Gilbert's eyebrow shot up. "You suspect a rat?"

Alfred nodded. "Very few people knew about the operation. And while you're doing that, I think I have a couple of sewers to check out; see if he left anything behind there or left some sort of trail." His lip twisted. "It's doubtful with his skills, but it's worth a shot."

"It's a place to start," Gilbert rumbled as he stood. "Vant me to call you ven I have ze information?"

"It's too risky, even with a secure line." Pulling a notebook and pen from the inside of his jacket, Alfred scribbled down the coordinates of the safe house. "Come here with whatever you find."

"Right." Folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket, Gilbert stood to his full height.

"My thanks in advance." Taking a deep breath, he watched the other man walk off. Squaring his shoulders, Alfred turned and headed off in a different direction. Dix was still out there, and he had work to do if he was going to find her.

Menewa is planning to take out the FACE family along with Dixie because each of them has had some part in the destruction of his former glory.

When Gil says he trained America, it's a reference to Prussia's aid during the American Revolutionary War.

Chapter Text

"Fuck!" Cosette yelped as a massive furry body tackled her to the ground. France lurched out of the way as she fell to the ground. "Goddammit, I told Momma ta train these dogs ta-" she was smothered by tongues. "A little help, dumbass?!"

Cosette wasn't exactly sure why she agreed to do this. France had approached her in the bunker—had gotten her alone—asking if she would accompany him to Dad's apartment and pick up Momma's dogs and his cat. They had been alone for almost twenty-four hours now. He looked so docile and subservient while he was asking too. Almost like a virgin schoolboy with his head lowered and his hands buried in the pockets of his designer jeans. She had every intention of spitting in his face and telling him no until she thought about the dogs and cat. France had no idea where they were or how to handle them. So, with begrudging reluctance, she agreed. His face lit up like fucking Christmas as he dragged her out to the Suburban.

"Alright, alright, zat's enough! Laisse! Off!" he snapped as he pulled the massive dog and puppy off of her by the collars. "Now, sit!" he barked.

Ulysses and little Stonewall obeyed, sitting in front of France with wagging tails and excited eyes.

"Bons chiens! My, my, zey are certainly energetic things. I don't know 'ow Dixie does it."

"You'd think they'd been alone for months instead a just a day."

The dogs noticed something was wrong. They started looking out in the hall and at Cosette and France. They knew their master wasn't there. Stonewall whimpered as he kept sniffing around, looking aimlessly for the woman who raised him. Ulysses, being the mentor, licked Stonewall's back and laid his head on him to comfort him.

"Je sais que vous manquez votre mère," France knelt down to scratch at the puppy's fur.

This was probably the first time he'd been away from Dixie for so long. She always stayed close to her pets and many of the states during their formative years. Now, Stonewall felt abandoned. Alone. Cosette could relate to that. She still had nightmares about the day that her first love, her own papa, gave her up for dirty money. His war with Britain was apparently much more important than her. She was just some slab of useless land. Not even worth the money that was exchanged.

" Papa, arête-les! S'il te plait! Je te prometsque je serai sage!" she screamed as the business man dragged her towards the unfamiliar carriage.

" Je suis désolé, Colette. Je reviendrai bientôt." His voice was tight, and his eyes were watery. An apology isn't what she wanted!

" Non! Papa, s'il te plait! Je t'aime! Est-ce que tu me détestes?!"

Before her emotions and memories could overtake her, she headed for the kitchen. Ah, there was Cochise. He was sitting in front of the refrigerator expectantly. Cosette chuckled and starched his head before grabbing a can of tuna and plopping it in his dish on the counter. Despite his heavy weight, the cat nimbly jumped up and began gulping it down as if he were starving, which she knew was a lie. Dad fed him six times a day. If anything, he needed to have a period of fasting. Then she filled the dog's bowls with food. She did it just like Momma: a cup of dry food in each bowl and a piece of lightly cooked pork chop. The dogs came running.

"Alright zen, let's get zeir things."

"Grab Cochise's cat bed 'n scratch post. I'll get the dogs' gear," Cosette said curtly.

They worked in silence for several minutes. The only sound in the apartment was that of animals eating leisurely. Then that dumb asshole just had to go and fuck it all up. "You know, Colette," France started.

Cosette rolled her eyes. "It's Cosette, galette," she snarled.

"Why did you change your name? You are not useless, and I refuse to call you such a 'orrible thing! You're not worthless. I named you Colette: victory for ze people. I did not name you 'worthless'."

Cosette didn't want to go down this road of questioning. There were too many demons lurking there, waiting to take her back into that black hole of despair and misery. She needed to change the subject now. "You were gonna say somethin' earlier. What was it?"

France paused, but Cosette didn't look up from her searching and gathering. She just hoped he'd take the hint and drop it. Unlike what Britain believed, France was actually capable of taking a hint when it came to emotional matters. He wasn't the nation of amour for nothing. "I was saying zat zis is ze first time we've worked as a team since…since Normandy. I was with ze revolutionaries with Amerique, and you joined me. Do you remember what you told me?"

Cosette looked up at him. He was smiling fondly and his eyes were bright. He clutched a hand to his chest as if the memory was a tangible thing he couldn't let go of. He really thought that much of her help? "Yeah," she cleared her throat. "I told ya I had ta come along an' make sure ya didn't get yerself killed in case there were Nazi bitches on tha beach," she chuckled.

Thunder cracked overhead like a massive whip reverberating through the sky. Rain poured down in thick sheets across Cosette's vision as the tiny boat filled with smelly Frenchmen. France and she were in the front of the craft. As they neared the beach, she could already hear the bullets ricocheted off the side of the craft. Men were screaming, and she could already smell blood in the air. She heard France curse behind her. He was probably still shaken from his imprisonment which was why she was there.

He wanted to participate in Operation Overlord so terribly, and despite all her hate, she knew she had to go with him. Had to make sure he'd be okay if nothing else. Then the ramp fell and the bullets came flying. Cosette had no time to think. She started screaming commands and dragging France onto the beach. She shoved floating bodies and entrails out of the way as she pulled him to a Czech hedgehog and jerked him down. Both of them were out of breath and in shock. They were…two out of the four that made it to shore. The rest were dead, including the boat driver.

She stared as a man tried to put his intestines back in his body as medics ran past him. He was screaming for help, screaming for his mother and shaking with the pain and terror. Then a cannon shot blew him away. All that was left was a torso and a few fingers. Cosette wanted to throw up. She'd never seen something so terrible…so horrifying. As soldiers fought to get to the makeshift sand bank, they caked themselves in sand, so much so that the blood from their wounds couldn't even be seen. Gunshots were mingled with cries of pain, shouts of command and the sounds of the storm. She was glad she wasn't a country. She was glad she was just a state that didn't have to deal with such massive wars. This was a mistake. She hadn't realized she'd zoned out until a hand shook her.

"Colette! Calm down!" France yelled as a bullet shot past him. "You have to breathe!"

Cosette looked into his eyes and saw firm resolve. He was a nation that had been in the business of war for centuries. In that moment, he looked like a warrior nation instead of one of love. She nodded and took slow, deep breaths, sagging against the tiny metal barricade. He wiped something off her cheek with that familiar, charming smile. "Now, let's get to ze embankment."

They checked their weapons and nodded to each other just before rushing out into the fray. They jumped bodies and zig-zagged their way through artillery like it was nothing. They were out of breath and covered in gore and sand. It was caked on their uniforms like a second skin. They were running side by side then as they struggled to get past all the wide-eyed corpses. They were going to make it. They were almost there. Just a few meters left.

Then she heard a loud, crisp crack. At first she thought it was thunder until she felt something whiz past her shoulder. Then she heard it again. "Colette, get down!"

France's desperate plea rang clear through the air despite all of the noise going on around them. She felt someone shoving her forward until she skidded through the sand and was behind a pair of stacked bodies. The next thing he heard was a dull thwack of a bullet piercing flesh. Then there was the sound of someone choking on their own breath. Cosette turned just in time to see France fall to his knees. There was a chunk missing from his neck. She didn't even have time to scream as he fell next to her, his eyes wide and in shock. He was clutching his neck in pain as he stared at the sky.

"Francis!" Her scream was like that of a frightened child. "Hold on, Francis. We're gonna make it," she said as she put pressure on the wound. Blood oozed between her fingers and trailed its way along her sleeves like thick, hot soup.

"T-Tu as dit…mon nom." Francis flinched and gasped in pain once before his eyes went blank and his body was lifeless.

"Francis," Cosette whispered, her voice wavering as her breath caught in her throat and tears started to cloud her vision. She grabbed at his shoulder and shook him. "Wake up! Please just wake up! You can't die! We're so close. Please…I never got to tell you I was sorry…that I still loved you."

Nothing happened. Francis' eyes and body remained lifeless. Alfred shook his head desperately, as if that would somehow reverse what had happened.

It had been three days since the end of the successful Operation, and Cosette still hadn't allowed anyone to touch France's body. Every soldier who had died was being cleaned up, but when the doctors came to Cosette's tent to clean Francis' body up and take him away, Cosette threatened them at gunpoint. She didn't notice it at first, when Francis stirred. It was such a soft movement. Just a twitch of his chest. She thought her eyes were tricking her. But then there was a jolt. Francis lurched up and took a deep breath of air, clutching at his neck.

Francis blinked a few times, when he looked at the person sitting beside him. "Colette?" he asked softly. He saw the look on her face and searched her eyes before cautiously taking her hand in his. "'ow long was I out?"

"Three days."

"My, zat was quick. Perhaps it is because of my little guardian angel, non?"

French translations: Papa, stop them! Please! I promise to be good!; I'm sorry, Colette. I'll be back soon.; No! Papa, please! I love you! Do you hate me?!; You said my name.

In Cajun French, galette is another word for cunt

Chapter Text

She failed him. She let herself be taken. Dixie was struggling not to let her humiliation at being kidnapped overtake her. It wouldn't help. She had to stay calm if this was going to work. She had no idea where she was being held. All she knew was that she was somewhere dark, she was bound in a steel cage and it was cold. Her wrists were raw from trying to break free from her own handcuffs, but she didn't have the strength that America did. Now, she was going to do something insane and desperate. She was careful as she shifted to sit on her thumb. Then she started slowly pulling her arm back. She hissed as she heard felt the joint shift.

One. Two…She jerked her weight back onto the joint and felt the jarring pain and pop of the thumb dislocating. Dixie nearly screamed form the pain of it. She saw stars in her vision. It took her several seconds before she remembered to pull her limp hand out of the cuffs before she started to heal herself. She got to her feet—not bothering with the other hand—and felt around for the door. It was a weak chain link enclosure like one would use for a dog. But it was held shut by a padlock and covered with some sort of heavy metal.

"Alright, Dixie, you can do this." She stepped back and took a deep breath before lunging at the door. She heard a few of the rungs snap. One more should do it, but she had to be quick. Menewa would have heard all the racket by now. Another deep breath. When she hit the gate this time, she fell through. The metal cut into her arm as she hit the ground. She was out.

"Shit."

She'd been found. Dixie made a run for it around the corner into a dark corridor. She ran as fast as her legs allowed her to with their lack of use. Her lungs and throat felt as if they were filled with needles. At the end of the corridor she turned right, only to run through yet another corridor, just as empty as the previous one. There was a sinking feeling as she was met with more corridors. She wasn't going to get out of here. There! An open door! She ran into the darkness, her breathing ragged as she looked for cover.

She ducked behind the door and waited. If he came in here, she'd jump him and break his neck. What she didn't expect, however, was for him to slam himself into the door, knocking the breath out of her. Dixie grunted and fell to the floor. Menewa was standing over her, grinning like a madman. Dixie jerked her legs and sent him crashing too. She managed to get a few punches in to the face and neck, but then she felt the sharp pain of a needle in her neck.

Everything went black.

Unlike the previous bolt-holes, this ladder down into the sewers didn't quite reach the walkway below. Dangling about five feet off the ground, Alfred braced himself and dropped with a grunt. Brushing dirt from his hands, he looked back up, studying the rungs. It definitely wasn't the easiest thing to climb...nearly impossible if one's hands were cuffed behind their back, like Dixie's were. So either they hadn't come this way, or Menewa carried her.

Turning, Al moved up the tunnel, heading north. His eyebrows drew down in thought as he walked, blue eyes constantly scanning the sewer for any hint of a clue. The streets of New York were like a rat's maze, but they only intersected every two city blocks in the sewers. Menewa could have turned off at any one of those points, then doubled back, circled or resurfaced somewhere. No, he was wounded now. His legs now sported painful second degree burns. If he had carried Dixie and made that drop with the weight of an extra body, his legs would be aching, meaning he'd be slow and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't go any farther than he had to.

He'd gone maybe two hundred feet before he reached the next intersecting tunnel. Suddenly, with three other possible routes ahead of him, Al had no idea where to look next. He was drawing a blank. "God fucking dammit!" Lashing out, he pounded the wall with the side of one fist, causing several massive fissures in the concrete, his jaw clenched in frustration.

Dixie had been gone for eight hours, he had been forced to wait that long by the need for secrecy and the clean-up. That bastard could've hidden her anywhere in the city by now. Hidden her, hurt her...or done any number of other things that he couldn't bear thinking about without causing a cave in. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Alfred slowly scanned the tunnels around him. Assuming Menewa had come this way, what might he have done?

Going straight was probably not a good idea; if he had been followed, it would have allowed pursuers a straight line of sight, meaning he would have been spotted in seconds. A turn would have been in order, but left or right? Another deep breath. Closing his eyes, Alfred fought his way through the fog this whole situation had dropped across his mind, trying to think clearly, logically. Straight was out. Left would lead towards the rougher parts of town. Right would take him back to the heart of the city and closer to home. Worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth, Al glanced from one tunnel to the other. What better place to hide, he decided, than under the feet of the same people who would be hunting for him and his captive? Turning right, he headed off down the tunnel, watchful for any sort of clue or last-minute trap.

Either his reading of Menewa was more astute than he realized, or he merely possessed an overabundance of dumb luck. His first clue in finding Dixie came at the Nineteenth Street intersection in the right-hand tunnel. Carefully jumping across the channel of sewage, Alfred pulled the paper from the electrical maintenance breaker box it had been hastily stuck to. Fernley's handwriting scrawled across the page, a single sentence long.

She will be found where blind justice is abandoned.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the words. Something about this didn't sit right. Looking up, he glanced about, watchful for any sign of a trap. His suspicion was met only with the distant dripping of some water source. He desperately wanted to go sprinting through the tunnels until he found the proper exit, dashing off to save Dixie, but experience held him back. Running into a situation without backup or intelligence was a speedy way to get himself hurt or worse, and he would be of no use to Dixie like that. If he was to mount a rescue, it would be with planning and certainly not alone.

Folding the note carefully, he tucked it into the pocket of his jeans before starting back the way he had come. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for being so lax in his execution of their plan. If he hadn't let Dix stay in the same room as their quarry, had just locked him away someplace until the feds could get him, this wouldn't have happened. He should have had Matt search him.

"Should have, could have, didn't," he muttered to himself, with no small amount of bitterness.

Dix would be well within her rights to beat the ever loving shit out of him when he found her. He knew she wouldn't, but he strongly suspected he would be enduring silence from her for at least a week. The most he could do was apologize and hope for the best. Reaching the intersection, he turned left...then paused. Alfred had never been a firm believer in coincidence; everything happened for a reason. So was his guesswork really so correct that he had walked straight to the note giving him Dixie's location?

On impulse, he turned down the right tunnel instead, skepticism tingling unpleasantly at the base of his skull. It wouldn't have been hard for the Creek nation to lay a false trail once he was in the tunnels. All he had to do was get Dixie a safe distance away from the hotel then leave her bound to a pipe somewhere while he went about his underhanded business. Sure enough, ten minutes and two turns later, he found another note, this one tucked behind a gas pipe. Unfolding it, Alfred scowled at the message hidden inside. Same as the first. He wanted these found, wanted to make sure the path they were found on wouldn't lead to wherever he had hidden himself. He wanted to make sure whoever found it was looking for Dixie. It was an invitation; Menewa was making sure Al had no choice but to accept or Dixie would suffer the consequence.

Chin braced on both hands, Mathew rested his elbows on the table, studying the map spread out before him. Arthur was off nursing a hangover in his room, and Francis was on his laptop looking at possible hideouts. Texas was pacing off in the back, and Cosette was playing with Stonewall on the floor. The city held any number of hiding places, but very few locations were long-term. There were even fewer locations that would be capable of constraining Dixie Bohannon for long.

"He'd better have left the handcuffs on her, if he wants to keep his head," he murmured, circling another possible spot in red marker. Similar circles dotted the map, marking the most likely spots: out-of-the-way hotels, warehouses, storage units, abandoned houses and the like.

"Oui. I suspect she 'asn't let 'im get off Scott free even if 'e 'ad a gun on 'er either. She fought."

They both turned when the door to the safe house opened, revealing a very weary Alfred. "Find anything?" Francis asked cautiously.

Pausing in the act of removing his jacket, Alfred looked up, his face unreadable. "The basement had an abandoned sewer that meets up with the main sewer system."

"Damn, that's clever. That takes these nine out of the running which leaves us with...ten possible locations."

Al settled into a seat. "I found something that may point to where the she's being held." Reaching into his pocket, he tossed several folded pieces of paper on top of the map.

Frowning curiously, Matt went through the papers one by one, reading the same message over and over. "'Where blind justice is abandoned,'" he murmured. "He really doesn't like your judicial system, does he?"

"Would you, if you were him?" His fingers drummed restlessly on the table, eyes going to the spread-out map he'd been studying for hours. "Where's the courthouse on here? I can't tell with it upside down."

"Uh," purple eyes searched the grids for a moment, before his finger settled to a point four inches left of the center. "Here."

A hand curled into a thoughtful loose fist in front of his chin as Alfred's eyes scanned the map. "We were here last night." His finger touched against the paper over the hotel, eyes tracking back and forth between it and the courthouse. "Not an unreasonable distance to travel on foot, even with a handcuffed Dixie."

"I'd say that's a forty-minute hike," Matt reasoned. "Add ten minutes for dragging Dixie along and dealing with his wounds, plus however long it took him to plant those notes."

"He may have wanted to hunker down someplace and make sure we weren't pursuing," Alfred added.

"Zat courthouse will be closed for ze next three days due to renovations," Francis added, showing them the laptop screen with the notice on the city website.

Al pushed wearily to his feet, turning towards the bedrooms. "We'll start with that. I'm going to try and get at least a little sleep."

"Good luck," Matt snorted. "The only one of us who's gotten sleep is Arthur, and that's only because he drank himself stupid."

"Dude, since when does he not drink himself stupid?"

Watching her sleep, Menewa could almost believe she was nothing but an innocent young girl. A shame, he thought, that he knew differently. He knew that behind that peaceful face lay a hardened mask that could drop into place at a second's notice. Those deceptively delicate-looking hands draped over her ribs bore callouses from handling firearms with perfect precision. And those soft, full lips were capable of spitting out biting curses and scathing retorts.

Menewa's eyes roamed the curves of her form, wondering at how many times America's hands must have caressed her skin. More than a few, he wagered. It would be hard not to touch the scarred skin if it was presented to him. He really must remember to get some photos before he disposed of her. It would be an excellent reminder. Perhaps he would remove the bandages from her arm and the makeshift splint on her thumb before he took them though.

This jail cell was a much better place to hold his pet. Especially after her little escape act. It had taken quite a lot of work to get her there though. He was forced to sedate her and drive her to their current location after midnight. Moving to the cell door, he crouched, reaching through an open slot at the bottom to place a cup of water and a plate with a sandwich on the floor inside. She may have been a prisoner with no hope of escape, but that was no reason to deny her food. He wasn't completely heartless unlike his little pet who denied food and medicine to her prisoners on more than one occasion. She probably wouldn't eat it, he thought almost wistfully. She certainly didn't trust him, and would likely think he was attempting to poison her.

It was such a shame. Another time, another place, an altogether different set of circumstances, and Menewa believed Ms. Bohannon could have willingly been his. She was whip-smart, with a fantastic eye for detail and nearly unending patience much like him. He got to his feet, giving her one last, long look before he moved back to the heavy iron door, closing it as quietly behind him as possible. It was a shame that the thing didn't have a more secure lock on it, aside from the wheel in the centre that drove the bolts home. Oh well, even if someone came into the courthouse during its renovations they'd still have to contend with the holding cell door.

Hands folded behind his back, Menewa strolled up the stairs into the open hall beyond. His shoes clicked on the tile floors, sending echoes up to the vaulted ceiling. Paintings were spaced along the side walls, covered by protective sheets while some parts of the wall were removed, revealing old, gritty pipes. Then he reached a large set of doors. This was the largest courtroom in the courthouse and was used mostly for high profile cases. At the room's front stood a wide, wooden dais with a high desk that ran the length of it. Where once the wood gleamed with polish, now it was covered by a dusty sheet. A small push-gate squeaked as he moved towards the judge's bench. The wall behind it was gutted, leaving only pipes, wires and the frame.

On impulse, Menewa climbed up onto the judge's bench, looking out over the room's expanse. Quick dark eyes flitted from place to place: exit blockers there, a counter measure there and there, and himself front and center. Yes, it would be quite the show indeed. Pleased at his own brilliance, he stepped back. If his plan was to go off without a hitch, there were several small adjustments that needed to be made and double-checked.

They all met around the simple table in the small common room of the safehouse. Prussia was sitting in Dixie's place, his hands resting on top of an iPad. Matt was busy pinning down the map while Alfred, Arthur and Francis were waiting quietly. Texas and Cosette were outside the compound doing security. They were taking no chances this time.

"Where do you want to start?" Matt said as he sat.

Standing straight, arms folded across his chest, Alfred was silent, visibly worrying at the inside of his lip with his teeth. "Menewa never uses the obvious front entrances to get in somewhere, and it's likely he'd expect us to do the same. So my first thought is to go in through the front door."

"Zat being said, with 'is tendency to plan for everything, 'e could 'ave anticipated you making zat decision and set up something nasty at ze front step," Francis put in, eyebrows drawn together in thought. "I wouldn't put it past 'im to have something at every possible entrance or exit."

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Arthur abruptly went very still. "What if we make our own entrance?" he asked slowly, eyes on the blueprints he was holding.

"I like zat idea!" Prussia said with a devious grin. "Zere is nothing like using ze explosives to say surprise."

"Take what the enemy expects you to do and do the opposite," Arthur agreed, quoting an old line from practically every tactical text there was.

Matt tapped the section of blueprint detailing the least reinforced wall in the accounting section. "This would be the easiest entry point."

Alfred nodded, eyes roving slowly over the diagrams in front of him, his mind turning the plan over and over, looking for any little flaw, any detail they might have missed. He wasn't going to be careless this time. Not when Dix's life hung in the balance. "It'll get us inside, at least," he said at last. "Once we're in, we'll follow normal procedure: clear the place room by room until we find Menewa, Dix or both. I'll come up with something to keep the humans off our tails, but we'll have to work fast." His head came up, gaze going from person to person, making sure to drive the point home. "If you find Dix first, alert the others and get. Her. Out. If you find Menewa first, offer him the chance to come quietly, and only take him down if he won't." His eyes hardened with contempt and carefully controlled anger, the barest hint making it into his voice. "If you do need to take him down then do it by any means necessary."

Chapter Text

Dixie was on a cot, fingers laced together over her stomach, eyes steady on the ceiling without seeing it, trying to figure out where she was. That bastard moved her to a new location. Wherever it was, it was pretty nice compared to other cells she'd been held in over the years. That one made from bamboo shoots in the sweltering jungles of Vietnam was way worse. This cell was six feet long by five feet wide and had a cinderblock wall at the back with the other three comprised of iron bars. There was no way this was a penitentiary. Menewa wasn't dumb enough to go there. Meaning, for a building have cells like this, it had to be a courthouse.

Sitting up, Dixie rested her arms across her knees. Her eyebrows were drawn together as she struggled to clamp down on the worry that had been constricting her chest since she'd woken up. This was a much more permanent lock up which meant he had no intention of transporting her anywhere else. This is where he planned to kill her. She ripped off the bandage covering the scratches on her arm and pulled off the splint too. If he was going to look at her and get off on it, he was going to have to see the injuries too. Her head came up at the sound of the heavy door at the end of the hall opening, her guard instantly went up and her expression dropped into rigid control.

Menewa smiled when he saw her awake and upright, letting the door close behind him. His eye was covered in a nasty purple bruise she was proud to have put there. His lip looked fat with swelling. Good. Next time she got a chance, she'd crush his skull in. "Ah, at last," he said pleasantly. "I trust you had a good rest, my dear. Goodness knows staying up all night can be taxing, especially when you're under stress."

"Ya get used to it." Getting to her feet, Dixie stalked slowly along the back wall of the cell like a cornered animal. "Yer concern fer my welfare comes across as mighty insincere an' irritatin', seein' as yer the cause of ma current stress."

Chuckling, he folded his hands behind his back. "I suppose I deserved that, didn't I?"

"That an' much, much more. An' if I have my way, yer gonna get every last scrap of it."

The grin that spread across Menewa's face hinted darkly at his instability as he leaned against the bars. His eyes gleamed dangerously in the dim lighting, causing the hairs on Dixie's neck to stand on end. She knew that look. That's the same look he had on his face the day he raped her. "You seem exceptionally feisty tonight, my dear. That's good." His fingers wrapped around the bars as he licked his lips and his eyes scanned her. Dixie unconsciously pressed herself as far from him as possible. "You of all people should know I like a challenge."

Her stomach flipped sickeningly, her heart beginning to pick up speed with terrified energy. Everything he did made her relive that horrible day. Every shift of his eyes and flash of teeth was like a living hell. "Gimme back ma gun an' I'll show ya just how much of a challenge I can be."

Another shiver went through her as he threw his head back and laughed. Long, loud and a full reaction to something hilarious. The sound echoed off the walls, and Dixie took a cautious step to the left. At last, he wiped away a tear, still smiling. "Oh, my dear, I knew you had a sense of humor, but I never imagined you'd be quite this funny. Perhaps you missed your calling as a professional comedian!"

Keeping her gaze steady and blank, she didn't move, watching him watch her. Like a lion would watch a child from behind the zoo fence. Finally, he seemed to shake himself back into a businesslike frame of mind, and reached for his pocket. "Well then. It's almost showtime; America will be here soon, and I daresay he'll be anxious to see you." Producing a cluster of keys, he sorted out a larger one and fitted it into the lock. "And if there's one thing I've learned, it's to not keep America waiting."

The door swung inward on scratchy hinges, screeching noisily. "Come now, dearest." He beckoned. "You want to see him again, don't you?"

Moving warily to the door, Dixie scrutinized him. There was no obvious sign of a weapon; both his hands were clearly visible. Unless he still had the grenades strapped to his leg, he appeared totally unarmed. He smiled at her hesitation, holding out a hand like a knight to his damsel. "Really, dear, do you honestly think this would be the best time to kill you? I have to kill America first."

Dixie ignored his proffered hand and stepped into the walkway. "I'll die long before he does."

Leaving the cell door open, Menewa moved to face her, humor in his eyes and a smirk on his smug face. Dixie stepped back until he had her backed against the wall. "I'm impressed, my dear. You have wide open paths to two exits and you haven't gone dashing off. Such self-control."

"I was asleep for hours," she answered coolly. "I dunno what sorta traps you rigged. Fer all I know, running would only end with me blowing myself sky-high or worse."

He chuckled. "So quick to rationalize." He shot forward, his arms caging her in and making her freeze up. "Perhaps, Ms. Bohannon, you're simply afraid to admit that you've begun to identify with me. That in all the time you've spent pursuing me and being pursued...you've begun to like me."

"Yer contradicting yourself," Dixie growled as his face inched closer to hers. "You told me in your first letter that you admired my personal strength. That's what keeps me from identifying with any part of you at all."

"Liar." His tone was almost singsong as he said the word, grinning. "Oh, that's a naughty thing to do, dearest. Lying is just terrible." He lifted a finger to brush over the scar across her neck, making her flinch. "You have difficulty looking me in the eye, don't you? You have to force yourself to do so." He pressed his lips to hers but withdrew before Dixie had the presence of mind to bite him. God, she wanted to throw up. Had to fight just to keep from gagging. She couldn't stop the blood from draining from her face though.

Several long, terrible seconds ticked past, and—as he said—Dixie had to force herself to even look at him. Those soulless black eyes held more than a spark of insanity. "You're stalling," she growled at last, hands curled into white-knuckled fists within her ziptie bindings to keep her calm exterior in place. "You came to get me for a reason, now what was it?"

"Ah, yes. Of course." Reaching down, he took her by the waist and started for the door. "You'll want to see this, I'm sure. It's all rather fascinating and intricate."

The door led up a flight of stairs that led to a hallway. As she was guided through it, Dixie felt her breath catch in her throat. Her dark blue eyes went wide, sweeping slowly over the huge room from vaulted ceiling to marble floors, from wall to gutted wall. As she had suspected: a courthouse.

"Don't just stand there gawking." He led her in and guided her to a small space behind the judge's podium. There was a clothing bag draped over the desk. "I know it's impressive, but don't let it shock you too much."

"Why here?" she asked, eyes picking out things that shouldn't be in a courtroom. Things this bastard had obviously added. "Why'd you choose this place?"

Stopping, he looked out across the darkened room thoughtfully. "For symbolism, mostly. Originally, I wanted to do this where our paths crossed the first time, but we can't have everything. This will serve my purpose just as well."

"And what purpose might that be?"

The sound of the zipper of the clothing bag was deafening. Dixie felt her hackles rise when she saw what was inside. If he intended to put her in that he was dead wrong. With a click, he chained her to the desk, making her eyes widen. Menewa's smile became tight and cold. "I would think that would be obvious, Dixie dear." Voice soft, he leaned close and kissed her ear. "This the blaze of glory you'll be going down in."

Dixie barked out a laugh. "Sorry ta disappoint." She held her head high, not deigning to look his way. "But I've been hit with far worse an' lived."

His hand was rough as it grasped her chin, turning her face towards him. The kiss was rougher still, his teeth scraping against her lip as his tongue forced its way past her lips. A small noise of surprise and disgust escaped her, and Menewa merely chuckled as he pulled away. "That's the thing, my dear," he muttered. "Even the strongest walls can be brought down if the small blows against them are repeated enough. Besides, I still remember how to make you bleed. Now, let's get you ready for the grand finale."

Arthur eased into the dark room beyond the rear door, flashlight held steady as support under his gun hand, sweeping carefully around the shadows in the deepest corners of the storage room he and Francis entered through. "Back door clear," he murmured into his microphone, edging towards the door that led to the rest of the courthouse. God, it felt good to be a spy again. "Moving forward."

A hallway opened up to his left. Francis darted out from behind him and shot down to the end, checking rooms as he went until they met up in the middle. "Courtrooms and judge's chambers A, B, and C are in ze clear," he said, voice low.

Up ahead came the sound of a small explosion. It seemed they were making their entrance through the front door loud and clear.

"C'mon, frog face." Turning off the flashlight, he dropped a hand to Francis' shoulder and steered him down the right hallway. "We'd better get up there and give them some bloody backup." He looked at a sign and followed the arrow that said "Coutrooms". It led them to a short stairway. At the top was a long hall filled with bland holding cells. On the opposite wall was a large steel door. The smell of damp brick and mold hung in the air.

Francis, of course, made a face as a hand shot to his nose. "Mon Dieu, don't tell me 'e was keeping 'er 'ere?! Zat is a crime in and of itself!"

"Will you shut it!" Arthur hissed under his breath. "Sheesh, for having been a resistance fighter before, you're fucking terrible at sneaking around, you know that?"

They tested the heavy iron door at the end of the hall. It refused to budge. Readying his gun and flashlight again, Arthur started back the way they had come. They'd have to find another way in now. Plan A wasn't going to work as they'd hoped. "There's a locked door back here, Alfred; we can't get through," he reported. "She's not here; want us to circle around front and meet up with you?"

The answer was a long time in coming. Arthur was just about to speak again when Alfred's voice came in low and deadly over the earpiece. "Stay where you are. We've got nothing but trouble on our end."

Sitting carefully motionless in the high-backed chair, Dixie focused on keeping her breathing even and her ears trained for any sign that the quiet calm was about to be shattered. Her gaze followed her captor as he circled the courtroom for the sixth time, checking and double-checking the traps he set. She assumed by his constant checking that a rescue would soon be there. When they arrived, it would be up to her to make sure they didn't fall for any of the countermeasures in play. Alfred would be looking for her the second he cleared the door; in that same second, she needed to make eye contact in such a way that it would warn him. After that, all he had to do was call a halt and-

"You seem awfully deep in thought."

Mentally shaking herself from her planning, Dixie stared blankly as Menewa stood in the center of the main trial area below. "Ain't much fer me ta do 'sides sit here an' think," she deadpanned. Lifting her left wrist, she shook the chain that ran under the podium, the links clinking together noisily. Apparently, Menewa thought he only needed one hand linked to a sturdy chain to keep her contained. "You saw ta that."

Laughing softly, he folded his hands behind his back. "I suppose I did, didn't I? Or perhaps I simply didn't want my prize to escape before I had a chance to enjoy the pleasure of her company." He smiled, and there was suddenly no doubt in Dixie's mind of what awaited her if he succeeded.

"You won't be getting' outta here alive," she said, careful to keep her voice under control. "I'll see ta that personally unless someone else gets to ya first."

"You still don't get it, do you?" Advancing towards her, Menewa circled to the left and began to ascend the short flight of steps to the judge's seat. "You have to think of it as a fairy tale. I'm the evil wizard, you're the damsel in distress and your beloved America is the heroic knight in shining armor."

Stopping in front of her, he braced both hands on the armrests of the chair she sat in, his face hovering only inches from hers. "Except this story comes with a twist." He grinned, lifting one hand to tap a finger against her nose. "This time, the wizard wins the princess, and the knight goes down in flames." Straightening, he reached out to run his finger over the swell of her chest...and abruptly yanked his hand back as her teeth snapped mere centimeters from his fingers. "Oho! Very quick, my dear, very quick indeed." His eyes glinted merrily. "But never quick enough to stop me." Stepping past the chair, he headed for the door into the judge's chambers. "Remember that: you will never be quick enough to stop me. Oh…before I forget, I wouldn't toy with that chain, if I were you. You never know what it could be connected to under the floorboards."

The door closed and she waited all of two seconds before glancing back to make sure he was out of sight. Her fingers probed at the chain. He got it with Alfred in mind. He would have to take break it off, or he'd risk hurting her. They'd need either a key or lockpicks to get the manacle off. Dixie supposed that, if it came to it, she could fight Menewa one-handed...for a while. Not for long, and if he were angered by her fighting back, the chance was greater that he would just kill her. A bitter taste soured her tongue as she realized that—much as she hated to admit it—her best chance for surviving lay in playing the part of the "damsel in distress."

Sighing, Dixie dropped her head against the leather cushion on the chair's back. Pale moonlight filtered in through the circular skylight above. The lining between the panes of glass were edged in silver-

Dixie's eyes went wide. Peering out from the side of the window pane, Gilbert lifted one hand in a wave with a ridiculous shit-eating grin on his face before he vanished. Her body tensed, preparing to shift into battle readiness at a moment's notice. With a conscious effort, she struggled to relax herself. No noise, no movement, no indication of a change. Anything could tip Menewa off now that he was on alert, and the longer he was unaware, the better. Easing back in the chair, eyes roving from place to place, she tried to pinpoint exactly where Alfred might come from. Maybe ten seconds, and-

The sound of an explosion came from the east end of the courthouse, and she smiled tightly. Make that five seconds.

Alfred flinched when the explosion went off, leaving a small hole in the wall of the building. His heart was pounding in his ears. He was so close to Dixie, and the final showdown was about to get underway. With a deep breath, he ducked under the upper edge of the hole, blinking to adjust to the dim light inside. And across the room, the moment his head came up, those beautiful dark blue eyes locked on his. Relief surged through his chest: Dixie was here, she was alive. She was...in a dress?

Rage boiled up in his gut at the sight of her. She was wearing a light peach colored hoop skirt with white lace trim. The upper portion of the dress left her shoulders and cleavage bare. He could tell from the bruises that she struggled while that bastard Menewa forced her into it. Her hair was left in its natural state and had a ribbon in it, but her face was done up. How dare he touch her like that and dress her up to fulfill his sick fantasies. He stood straight, opening his mouth to call her name when her gaze turned icy as she glared at him. Alfred froze, holding up a hand to stop Matt.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. Something was wrong, but what was it? His gaze flicked briefly around the courtroom, but no obvious danger presented itself. What was she trying to tell him? Was Menewa lurking somewhere out of sight? There were any number of places to hide, but surely Prussia would've seen him from overhead.

Looking back to his grim-faced lover, he lifted his shoulders in a minuscule shrug, mouthing the word 'what?'

Dixie rolled her eyes before giving him the same sharp look…and then directing it to the floor at his feet with a jerk of her head. Alfred frowned, puzzled. What about the floor? Looking down, for a long moment, he saw nothing but scuffed hardwood, a few splinters here and there, an odd glint-

An odd glint that appeared to be floating in midair about two feet in front of him. Puzzlement gave way to curiosity as he crouched, bringing the thing to eye level as it shifted in the moonlight. Cautiously, he brushed a finger along it. It gave only slightly, before bouncing back into place. A tripwire. A tiny loop anchor screwed into the wall caught his eye, but where was the other end? Flattening himself on the floor, he edged forward under the wire, having to squint closely to see where it led to. Alfred swallowed hard against a sudden skip in his heart rate. At every two intervals along the underside of the bench were a pair of grenades. Worming his way backwards, he climbed carefully to his feet, just as the earpiece crackled with Arthur's voice.

"There's a locked door back here, Alfred; we can't get through. She's not here; want us to circle around front and meet up with you?"

Giving Dixie a returned grim-faced glance, he propped both hands on his hips, opening his mouth to answer…only to close it again as the door behind the judge's bench opened slowly.

"Stay where you are," he murmured, watching as a smiling Menewa stepped into the courtroom. "We've got nothing but trouble up here."

"You're early, America!" His voice carried clearly thanks to the room's acoustics. "I estimated at least another half hour until your arrival, but it appears I gave you too little credit." He folded his hands behind his back. "I'm pleased you were able to figure out my invitation."

"You didn't give me much of a choice," he fired back. His arm swept over the room. "What's all this?"

The other man tsked. "Really, America, did you think I was going to take her and then not make some effort to defend myself? This is just my early warning system, set up to alert me if you slipped in unnoticed." He paused, thoughtful. "I suppose I didn't really have to worry about that though, did I."

Taking an extra moment to clamp down more firmly on the anger roiling in his stomach, Alfred took a cautious step forward, careful not to brush against the tripwire. "You bring up a good point," he said, casually slipping his hands into his pockets. Time to play the game. "You've taken something that I want, and I'm not leaving here without having her."

Menewa's ever-present smile widened. "Is that so? Do you mean having her with you or just having her?"

Alfred flinched with a frown. "As long as she's nowhere near you, I don't care which it is."

Pacing slowly across the raised platform, Menewa circled behind the chair Dixie was seated in. His hands ran up her arms and rubbed her shoulders. "You say that," he said, chuckling to himself. "But you and I both know which one you would prefer." Bending, he gripped her chin and kissed her cheek before looking up with a grin. "I understand why. I want the same thing myself."

"Why isn't she fighting back?" Matt muttered through the radio. "She's mad, any tit can see that, but why isn't she trying to strangle him with her bare hands?"

"She's probably restrained or she knows something zat we don't," Francis answered. "Otherwise, there's no way 'e would still be alive."

Alfred's voice rose over theirs, still under rigid control. "Bohannon: situation report."

Lifting her chin, Dixie's voice was clear in the massive room. "I think it's safe to classify this as a SNAFU, Sir."

That drew involuntary snorts of laughter from Louisiana Purchase and Texas who were in the communications van with two SWAT teams and an ambulance alongside them.

"What's so funny?" Arthur questioned through the earpiece.

"It's an acronym," Texas said. "It stands for 'Situation Normal: All Fucked Up."

Arthur laughed quietly. "Well, at least she's okay, if she's saying stuff like that, right?"

"That's where you'd be wrong," Tex said, humor fading. "The more pissed she is, the more sarcastic she gets."

Alfred made no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. "I've held off the order to shoot you for this long, but if you insist on carrying on, I won't hesitate to give it." His eyes turned hard as he let just enough of his anger show to make a point. "Either make your move, or get on the ground with your hands behind your head."

Stopping next to the witness stand, Menewa leaned against it, grinning widely. "Sick of giving me chances…but giving me one last choice, America? You're a man of many contradictions. But I'm afraid I'm the same as ever…so you'll forgive me if I squander this last opportunity." From the leg space inside the witness stand, he pulled a handgun, aimed it in Al's general direction and fired.

Dixie's shout of "Alfred!" was covered up by three more shots. Both he and Matt dove out of sight behind the seating, leaving only the echoes of the shots as they faded into silence.

"Alfred?!" Arthur's voice was near-frantic. "Alfred, what's going on in there?! Answer me, you lout."

"Mein Gott, vill you quit screaming on ze radio?! Zey're fine," Prussia griped. "Ve didn't expect him to come quietly, und it appears he's proving us right."

Alfred forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting past the anger and reaching for the calm he knew he needed for this. He couldn't let Menewa get to his head. Another deep breath and he made to push himself into a crouch. Wait, where was that tripwire? He glanced to his right… and his eyes went wide as he spotted the pair of grenade pins on the floor. The tripwire was under his hand, brought down when he dove for cover. Pushing upright, though still bent low, he grabbed Mattie and bolted for the back of the courtroom. He made it twenty feet before the explosion and resulting shock wave knocked him flat.

He was faintly aware of Dixie shouting beyond the ringing in his ears, and then…the bone-chilling sound of Creek nation laughing his ass off. Climbing cautiously to his feet, he had the displeasure of seeing the other man still in the midst of his fit, head thrown back and mouth open in hysteria.

"Guys, could use you up here right about now."

"What do you need, Amerique?"

Keeping his voice low so that it wouldn't carry, Al watched Menewa slowly bringing himself back under control. "Dix is behind the judge's bench, and she hasn't budged, meaning there's something holding her there. You and Arthur find out what it is and get her out."

"Right. Is the path clear?" Arthur chimed. He could tell he'd started running.

"No. Go through the judge's chambers. We'll try and keep his attention on us, but make it fast."

"Got it."

Menewa spread his arms. "What's all this caution for, America? Throw it to the wind! Have at me!"

Alfred stayed where he was, eyes never leaving his enemy. Reaching into the witness stand, Menewa touched something that emitted a soft click that was immediately followed by a partially-muffled explosion from the rear of the building. Everyone except Menewa instinctively half-ducked for cover. Menewa just snickered.

"What's happened just now, America, is that France and Britain have been sealed in the southwestern corridor. Perhaps they were even buried in the rubble."

Quiet settled as the last rumbles from the explosion faded, Mattie already murmuring quietly into his radio. "Cosette, radio status on Francis and Arthur?"

"I'm tryin' to raise them; getting' nothin'. Update in five."

"The look on the Al's face says you have less than two."

When Alfred spoke up again, his voice was clear in the dust-filled room. "Dixie, remind me to add 'assaulting foreign dignitaries' to the list of charges on his arrest report."

"Duly noted, Sir." She was as perfectly snide as always, sitting back almost relaxed in the judge's chair. "Would you like me to tell him what he'll be charged with?"

"Sure, why not. You know I'm all about those civil rights."

Taking a deep breath, Dixie propped her chin on one hand. In any other situation, she would look like a queen on her throne. "Assaultin' two foreign dignitaries, destruction of public property causin' bodily harm, destruction of public property, destruction of private property, destruction of private property causin' bodily harm, stalkin', arson, illegally possesin' a firearm, fifteen counts a murder, illegal transactions of dangerous objects, terrorism." Blue eyes turned hard and sent a sidelong glance in Menewa's direction. "For what he's done to me alone there are charges of unlawful confinement, causing psychological distress, rape of a minor, threatenin' bodily harm, assault with a narcotic, harassment, molestation, attempted rape, assault, breakin' and enterin', theft, espionage, and conspiracy to commit murder. Hell, I'll even throw in battery for breaking yer nose."

"And let's make it three counts," Menewa grinned as he raised the gun and fired. Alfred and Matt ducked, but Matt had been too slow judging by the loud yelp of pain.

"Shit," Alfred hissed, crawling to his brother and checking where the bullet had imbedded itself in his hip, putting pressure on it. "Man down."

From overhead came the shattering of glass as Prussia jumped through the ceiling, landing in a crouch. "Nailed it!" Prussia cackled. "Zat landing vas awesome."

"Dude, not the time!" Alfred snapped.

"Ja, ja," he waved him off as he faced Menewa. "Alright, zis has gone on long enough. I can only put up vit so much uncool in one sitting. It's bad for mein stomach. How about you just put your veapon down."

"Oh, it's just you. I thought it would be someone dangerous." Flicking the safety on, he tossed the gun aside; it clattered against the floor and slid across the hardwood to come to a stop against the far wall. "What an unexpected pleasure this is. I haven't been face-to-face with you since America's little revolution. Though that certainly doesn't mean I haven't been keeping tabs. It seems we're on an even playing field."

Prussia's eyes became slits of mad red as he eyed him angrily. Even from here, Alfred could tell shit was about to go bad. "Me? On ze same level as you? Don't mock me."

"Ah, but we are. We're both weak because our nationhoods were taken from us." His voice was soft, his mouth set into a dangerous smirk. "But mine was from being hunted. Yours-"

"Don't."

Menewa chuckled. "SS-Supreme group leader and colonel general of the Waffen-SS, Gilbert Beilschmidt, the sole nation responsible for the majority of the planning and carrying out of the Holocaust."

Prussia visibly tensed as he froze in place.

"The man who sent millions to their death without blinking an eye."

Alfred started edging slowly towards the gate into the proceedings area, a knot of dread sinking slowly down through his chest. "Shit."

Talking about that...did things to Prussia. Not good things either. Let's just say whatever Russia did to him during his captivity wasn't natural. It couldn't be since Gilbert was still alive. He didn't use magic like Alfred and Arthur did to Dixie. No, Russia did something much, much worse. He had pretty solid control over it, but...talking about his sins tended to make him lose it. Alfred needed to calm him down before he brought the whole place down on top of them.

"Don't listen to him, Gil!" Dixie snapped, using her military voice. She was trying to use his soldier side to get him to focus. "He's trying to get into your head. Don't let him get to you! You're better than that, dammit."

Menewa laughed openly. "Yes, Prussia, by all means, block me out. Just like you blocked out the truth so that you didn't have to think about it while you heard the screaming of innocent Jews. So you can forget the shame and the dishonor you've brought upon your country. Your brother. Your father. Your nieces and nephews."

Hands curled into fists, Prussia's voice was low, his broad shoulders high with tension. "I thought I told you," he murmured. His voice was changing, becoming several different voices in unison. Demonic. "To be silent!" Fissures appeared in the floor at Prussia's feet as the building swayed as if it was in an earthquake. Fuck.

Tilting his head to one side, Menewa took on a quizzical air. "Can you ever really redeem yourself from something like that? Absolve yourself of the sin of genocide?"

Artie interrupted over the radio, his voice hushed. "Sorry for the wait, lad; we're stuck back here." There was the sound of an exasperated breath. "There were two bombs set to blow: one low-yield to block us in and one concussion blast to knock us out."

A short wave of relief rolled across Al's mind, despite the unfolding situation in front of him. "Good," he muttered back. "Can you get through?"

"Already on it."

He heard a yell and glanced up. Prussia was making a beeline for Menewa. He rammed his hand forward, but he only hit hair. Menewa had dodged and landed a pair of precise punches to the left temple. Gritting his teeth, he brought both hands laced together in a double fist down hard on the back of Prussia's skull. Alfred felt his lips press into a thin line at the sickening crack as Prussia went slack and collapsed.

"Honestly, you nations are so easy to goad. Back in my day, we had better self-control."

Covering the last distance to the front, Alfred reached out to open the little swing gate that led to the hearing floor.

"Sir, stop!" He froze, one hand on the wooden rail, eyes going to an alarmed Dixie. Her chin indicated the gate. "He's set up a trip wire attached ta two sets a grenades," she continued at her normal volume.

"Oh." He leaned over, glancing down at the explosives. "Let's avoid that."

Ahead of him, Menewa chuckled, stepping on Prussia as he strolled over. "Oh, come now, America. That's not sportsmanlike at all. You have to let me score a point sometime."

Planting one hand on the railing, Alfred vaulted over it, eyes never leaving his opponent.

Menewa spread his hands. "Ah ah, America, let's not be too hasty." He circled to his right, in front of the judge's bench. "You don't want to kill me. Not when you still feel so bad about what you did to my people. And you promised to give me a trial, didn't you?"

So he was right. There had been a mole in that meeting. Stopping just five meters from the bench, in the center of the room, Alfred frowned, watching the other man walk. "Why do you say that?"

"Please. You've had any number of opportunities to just snap your fingers and destroy me. We both know you're ridiculously strong." He tapped a thoughtful finger to his chin. "Yet you've taken none of them. You want the moral high ground so you can sleep at night." He snorted softly before indicating Dixie with a lazy hand. "You want your love to be able to look you in the eye and tell you you're a good man."

"And, uh… how long has zis been going on?" Francis asked over the radio.

He glanced at Menewa, seeing the smug smirk dancing around the other man's mouth as he leaned back against the jury box.

"Less than a week," he heard Matt grumble. How the hell did he know about it?! "I win. I expect thirty-eight thousand in euros by the time I'm back home."

"What no witty retort?" Menewa frowned. "Ah well, back to the chess game." Reaching inside the jury box, he pulled something grenade-like from a hiding spot within, and yanked the pin from it.

Alfred was already moving towards the judge's bench as the device was tossed, but he drew up short as it rolled in front of him, liquid spraying from tiny holes in the top as it went. He frowned, watching as it spun in a semi-circle back toward the wall and abruptly froze as a new smell wafted up into the air around them. Gasoline.

His gaze shot back to Menewa to find the other man grinning from ear to ear. "Do you like my new toy? I made it just for today." He drew a lighter and another, smaller pistol from inside the jury box, hefting it in anticipation. "I believe it's your move."

Chapter Text

Dixie could feel her heart racing, could see the tips of her bangs shaking with the vibration, could feel her breath coming in shorter, shallower inhalations, could hear the chains clinking around her shaking hands. This was bad, but she didn't dare try to calm herself down. She had to be ready to make a move in a second's notice. She needed the adrenaline to act quickly in case...she didn't want to think of a reason she'd need to pull the chain connecting her to whatever was under her. The acrid smell of gasoline on the floor made her wrinkle her nose, her eyes going from Alfred to Menewa and back again like a nervous metronome. The former was standing perfectly still, his hands at his sides, eyes on the lighter in the madman's hand.

"Isn't this ironic," Menewa said softly, grinning from ear-to-ear. "The great and powerful America faces the Justice he claims to uphold. This almost has a sort of poetry to it."

"I was never much for poetry," Alfred answered dryly. He glanced in Dixie's direction, held her gaze a moment longer than he needed to and then turned to look at Prus-

Where was Prussia? Her eyes scanned the area when a firm, icy hand gripped her ankle. It was like touching a cadaver. She jumped, trying to jerk away and assume the fetal position. Then she looked down. Prussia was at her feet, his right eye completely swollen and black and his skin was ashen. His one good eye was glowing red in a sea of black where white used to be. God, if she never saw that again it'd be too soon. This wasn’t Prussia. This was the thing that festered inside Prussia. The thing Russia put there to keep the former nation alive. It sent chills down her spine...but at least he was alive.

Prussia held a finger to his lips and pointed ahead. Right, couldn't make a scene. However, she could distract him. Maybe she could get him to put one of his weapons down, either the pistol or the lighter. It would give Alfred a chance to secure him.

"Poetry or not, you can't tell me you don't see the symbolism." Menewa tossed the lighter slightly into the air, catching it again in a dare. Alfred lurched slightly, his eyes never leaving the flicker of flame. "And I wouldn't worry. I won't let the flames kill you. I'll masked sure you live long enough to see me violate your lover and watch her die. Then you'll be next."

"You're changing your plan," Dixie commented aloud, watching the man's head whip around in her direction. She felt Prussia flinch beside her. She was drawing attention, but she wanted to challenge her captor. Defy him. Destroy him. "Ya told me ya intended ta kill him first then rape an’ kill me. Sounds like yer havin’ trouble committin’."

His mocking smile took on an indulgent air. "Oh Dixie, my dearest, you forget just how flexible I've become. I'm not the same man I was before, all strict routine and consistent modus operandi." He waggled the lighter warningly as Alfred moved to take a step forward. "And let's face facts, you and he deserve a higher level of punishment than what my original plans called for." The smile dropped away, as did any false kindness his voice had held. "It's a strong word, and I don’t like using it, but I truly hate being hindered, Dixie."

"Yer stallin’ now," she pointed out with a sneer. She couldn’t stop herself. If she couldn’t bash him physically, she would do it verbally. Alfred's head whipped around, his eyes wide in alarm and indignation as he stared at her, the unspoken 'what the hell are you doing?' hanging heavy in the air, almost tangible. "Wouldn't that be counted as hinderin’ yerself?"

"Oh, no no no." Good humor abruptly restored, Menewa laid the small, sleek pistol in his hand on the railing of the jury box. "This is very different. You see, when there's something standing in the way of what I want, I'm being hindered. What I'm doing here is merely taking my sweet time."

Her eyes lit up with predatory glee. The gun was now only feet away. She could get to it within seconds. Alright, now she had a plan. First, get free. Second, get the gun. Third, get Menewa. Emphasis on step three. All fairly straightforward, except for the part where Menewa was threatening them both with total incineration.

Menewa crouched, picking up the container of gasoline. A quick movement of his wrist sent the liquid splashing out…into direct contact with Alfred. He thankfully jumped back to avoid a second splash, grimacing at the smell of the stuff.

"Will you send the states in here next, America? You always were hesitant when it came to them. I doubt Louisiana Purchase could take me head on again. She's a bit on the small side now." His tone turned almost one-sided. "One wonders how she made it this long, really."

Bright blue eyes blazed as Alfred stalked towards Menewa, stopping directly in front of him. Papa lion was on the prowl. Dixie held her breath, knowing that if the chance came, punches would be thrown. "Don't. Threaten. My kids."

Unfazed, Menewa gave a theatrical sigh. "Your commitment is certainly commendable, America. But it's so..." He paused for the space of a heartbeat, before flicking the flint on the lighter and stepping back. "Boring."

Dixie watched the lighter fly in slow-motion, saw Alfred's eyes widen, saw the grin on that monster's face, and then her eyes shut tight against a sudden wash of heat. Her entire body tensed, dread taking up the space in her lungs meant for air as she waited for the anguished howl that meant Al was being burned alive.

It wasn't coming, but another noise was. Gilbert got her unchained with a soft click. Dixie dropped to the floor, creeping towards the far end of the judge’s bench. She had to get that gun.

"Damn zat dress looks good on you," a multitude of voices spoke to her, all coming out of Gilbert’s mouth. Within the multitude, she could spot his voice though. “Your tits look massive.”

"Keep it in yer pants,” she said warily. She trusted Gilbert with her life…but not this thing. She knew what it was capable of. “Hey, get that chain loose. I wanna hang his ass from the rafters," she said with a malicious smirk.

"Vit pleasure." He followed the chain running into the floorboards, using all the noise from the fire to rip off a few boards. A moment later, the albino drew back in surprise, muttering a soft: "Holy fuckbuckets."

The chain was drawn toward the front of the bench by a cluster of strings that no doubt fanned out to the grenades and tripwires around the room. The last links of the chain were separated, hooked to the positive and negative terminals of a car battery. It was enough to vaporize both her and Prussia on detonation.

"Damn." Sitting back, Prussia shook his head and snapped an unattached link with his bare hand. "It's a good thing you didn't pull too hard. It vould have blown ze place to hell."

Now to get the gun. Dixie's heeled feet hit floor in front of the witness stand, and she carefully circled out into the staging area, her eyes on the charred, bloody back of her boss and lover. She suddenly felt the magic across her chest flare to life, pulling her energy from her in massive amounts. He was hurt, draining her of life energy so he could heal quickly. Then her eyes connected with Menewa’s. He made no move to intercept her as she moved forward. "Sir?"

His head turned as he spoke over his shoulder. All of his skin was gone, even a majority of the muscle tissue, leaving bone and boiling eyes. Dixie blanched as she watched his eerily slow recovery. If that was just his face...what did the rest of his front look like? She didn't want to think about it. "Fine."

Taking a step back towards the judge’s bench, she dropped her volume. "Gil, gimme yer radio."

There was a second's pause, before a tiny microphone and battery pack slid out. Dixie didn't bother with discretion as she bent down to attach the mic to her shirt tuck the earpiece in place.

"Arthur, Francis, new plan," she said smoothly. "Come in from the front and get Matt outta here. He's hit and bleedin’. Probably internal damage. Gil, you go too. Fix yerself before you do somethin’ stupid."

"And vhy ze hell should I?"

"Do it now! This is between us an' him."

Gilbert scoffed and marched off, jumping the small gate as he went to get Matt and help him out. Menewa was already chuckling by the time she reached Alfred's side. "Free not even two minutes, and you're already giving orders." He shook his head in admiration. "Such adaptability! I must say, I'm impressed."

The glare she shot him was filled with as much venom as she could muster. "I'm gettin' mighty sick a you, prairie nigger."

"Such language!" He mock gasped. "I expected no less though. You’re obviously relapsing. Such trauma will do that, but it was quite the lovely trauma was it not?” he purred. Dixie felt bile rising in her throat. She wanted to vomit. “And since your lover's body in still healing, it's just you and me doing our dance. Just like old times, dearest."

For a long moment, Dixie hesitated. Right this moment, she could take the gun from Al, shoot Menewa between the eyes, double tap the heart and end this. And why shouldn't she? No jury in the world would convict her. They couldn't even if they wanted to. She was invincible. The thought and the rush of power she felt was wonderful, almost reminiscent of the way she felt during war. However, a shot to injure, instead of kill might be better. That way she could have her way with him.

"Hey." Alfred had half-turned his still-healing neck, no doubt picking up on what she was thinking. His big blue eyes fixed her with a firm look, the same as he wore when he took command. His voice was low, the words deliberate. "You listen to me, babe. Stick to the plan. You heard him: once I heal we'll kick his ass. We're the dynamic duo, right?"

That look, that use of the pet name only he used…it brooked no argument.

Menewa chuckled. "Oh, a pet name. Isn't that sweet? Will you call her that while I ravage her? I can make her feel good now that she's older. There will be less blood too.”

Fuck Alfred. Fuck his plan. Fuck everything. How dare he openly mock her pain? He was flaunting the thing that hauntd her for centuries in front of her. She had to rise ot the challenge. Had to finish this.

Gritting her teeth as outrage took over her body, Dixie dropped into a crouch, pushing Alfred to the ground, and snatched the gun from the floor. She rose fluidly, bringing the weapon up in both hands just as Menewa raised his own gun. The weight of the weapon was like a security blanket. She was no longer a victim. She was a vanquisher! The nausea was gone as were the tremors.

His smile was still self-assured, but it no longer reached his eyes. Good. He was wary of her. She could see the cautious look of a hunter as he faced a lion. "Nice try, dearest, but I'm not that easy."

"Didn't think ya were," she answered coolly.

"I suppose this isn’t the 'plan' you spoke of, America?"

"Dixie," Alfred warily warned.

Dixie's eyes never left Menewa as the safety clicked off. When the audible sound reached his ears, her tormentor’s mottled face turned to her. "Put down the gun. Now! I’m taking ya inta custody!”

"It doesn't matter. As soon as the fire hits the judge's bench, this place will be done. I have a very pretty set of eight bombs hooked into a car battery under your former seat."

The crack of a shot echoed off the walls, the bullet grazing Menewa's ear to slam into the wall behind the jury box. A small trail of blood oozed from the tip of his ear where she aimed. "I said, put the gun down," she snapped, her tone foreboding. "I did not ask for an explanation of yer pussyfootin’ tactics. Drop it. Now."

The soulless eyes watched her with something bordering on mischief. "No."

Alfred spoke, his voice low and warning. "Dixie-"

Glaring hotly, she took a step to the side, ignoring Alfred entirely as Menewa came into better range. "Do you think I cain't incapacitate you? That I cain't drag you to the most remote location on Earth and slowly peel your skin form your bones, makin’ sure you stay alive? All I need is one shot and—“

"Dixie."

"—an' I will take it, unless you drop the gun and bow on your knees," she snarled, the feeling of victory and war coursing through her veins. She wasn’t sure if she oculd stop now. Not when the adrenaline was pumping through her veins while her mind spat out violent tactics and thoughts of bloody revenge.

That hint of mischief was still there, along with something that must have been smug satisfaction. "You should listen to your lover, my dear," he said softly. "Some people might think you're becoming unbalanced. Insane. Like your poor friend Prussia."

"That's whatcha wanted, ain’t it?!" she shot back angrily. "You've been after me fer over a century. Ya admit ta causing me no end of trouble, and yer surprised when I turn a gun on you? Yer amazed that my sanity is on tha brink?!"

Alfred’s eyes were wide with worry as he stood, his body now fully healed. He reached out to her and darkly barked a command: “Bohannon, stop.”

Menewa shook his head. "Oh my, I think you've made your lover angry, dear."

At last, she dragged her eyes from him to focus on Alfred. His eyes found hers, and his reformed lips pressed into a thin line. He gave his head a minute shake: a very clear "don't do this." She could see the disappointment in her there too. That was all it took for her to take a cliff dive into insanity. If he had given up on her…there was no reason to fight the pull any longer.

"This ain’t your first fight, is it?" Menewa murmured gleefully. “So juicy.”

"Quiet." Dixie shot him a brief glare before turning her attention back to Alfred.

"Don't do this," he said, this time aloud. "Don't you dare give in to him. You've spent this long denying him what he wants, and now you're about to give it to him. This isn't what the hero does. Please don't...don't make me have to stop you. Dix, I love you. Don’t make me do something to fuck this up.”

She frowned. "You threatenin' me, Sir?”

“Believe me, I don't want to, but if it'll stop you from killing him out of revenge, then I'm willing to do whatever it takes." His look turned meaningful, even though his tone dropped even lower. "Cold-blooded hatred…that's what's driving you. I'm not going to let that take over, do you understand me? I’ve seen what you become. I don’t want to lose you to that again. I couldn’t handle it."

"Alfred...I ain’t the hero,” Dixie choked out. It was a truth she didn’t want to believe, but now that it was out there, she knew it was true. A sob escaped her throat. “I'm a villain. That's my purpose in life. I do the dirty work to protect you...because I want you to still be the happy-go lucky America I fell in love with," she smiled sadly. “I’m war and hate and conflict. I’m everything about you that is evil and terrible.”

"Dixie...don't. Babe, don’t do this. Just…come here. Give me the gun. It’ll be okay.”

She took a deep breath. Her decision was made now. Resolution filled her voice while tears filled her eyes. "Civilization rests on the principle that we treat our criminals better than they treated their victims. That we not stoop to their level. But I'm an outlier. I'm not part of any civilization. I’m an aborted nation. I'm something much more archaic…which means, of course, that I can do the things that civilized people can't."

Menewa grinned. "That’s it! This is the end of the line, my dear! I believe we're long overdue for some mutually assured destruction!"

Dixie looked at Alfred's pleading face and forced her expression into a flat stare. "I'm sorry I ain't the hero you want me ta be. I hope you can still love the memory of me."

"No!"

Alfred barreled into her just as Dixie fired eight rounds into Menewa's head, chest and knees, but she didn't see the grin as he pressed a trigger button on a small device in his hand. She heard the sound of the car battery sparking as Alfred wrapped himself around her and they hit the floor. There was a split-second of the familiar feeling of his arms around her shoulders—a strange sense of comfort out of place in such a situation—before an ear-splitting explosion and the radiating pain.

In my headcanon, Russia used supernatural means to keep Prussia form dying which means Prussia is essentially possessed.

Dixie’s foul racial slur was common during the days of the wars between the Native Americans and the American people. She was regressing into that more violent part of her life. That doesn’t make it okay, but I felt an explanation was in order.

Also, thank you guys so much for the support. I know it’s taking me forever and a day to finish this and my AoT fic, but medical school is a bitch. It literally sucks the creativity and soul out of you. You guys that are sticking around and leaving comments are my bread and butter. Much love!

Chapter Text

Arthur was just straightening from checking Mathew's pulse when the most violent explosion yet rocked the sidewalk beneath him, tossing him to the ground face first. He was vaguely aware of a cry of surprise either from Matt or Francis though he couldn’t tell which. Maybe himself? It certainly wasn't Prussia. He was flying high as a kite after they pumped him with sedatives to calm him back into a...non-demon state. He had enough drugs in his system to kill an elephant twice over. That only happened after he snapped a paramedic’s arm like a bloody twig. Poor sod.

"Heilige schiße, zose are some awesome firecrackers." Though apparently not high enough to form words. Stupid words.

He glanced over to find Mathew and Francis staring at the building, eyes wide with shock. Flames had sprouted behind the windows, smoke beginning to violently roil out of the openings. The entire roof was gone, collapsed somewhere within. The humans around them were screaming and terrified. Texas had thankfully come up with an explanation when the police, SWAT and an ambulance all arrived. Picking himself up, Arthur headed for the building, grabbing Francis off the ground as he went. "Come on, frog face, we can't just bloody well leave them in there!"

"Oui!" Surprisingly, the French bastard was on his heels almost instantly.

They were partway to the opening in the wall where they entered when water came gushing out in a horizontal geyser, dousing the room inside just enough for them to slip in past the clouds of dense black smoke. It was coming from the busted plumbing pipes in torrents. The gas fire still roared on the far side of the room, but they had just enough time before it mingled with the water to find the two still inside...possibly three if that smug arse Creek nation had survived. God, he honestly hoped he hadn’t made it. He’d never wished death on another nation, but he was making an exception for that bag of cocks.

As soon as he took a few steps deeper into the room, Arthur knew Creek nation would no longer be a problem. He lay at the edge a crater, his head hanging by a few lumpy remains of his neck. The rest was splattered across the room. His body was twisted at crazy angle over the edge of a chunk of concrete and arm-sized chunks of wooden seating rest embedded in his chest. Dark eyes stared at nothing from over a slack, half-crazed grin. A bullet hole gaped just above his brow. God, there were pieces of the bastard everywhere.

He heard as Francis fought down the impulse to gag at the smell of blood and the rotted-sweet odor of cooking flesh. "Zere!"

A large pile of debris was moving and shifting. Then Alfred's head came up like he was coming up for air after a long swim. And then, like water, the debris started shifting away from him. His back was covered in shrapnel and black soot as his chest heaved for air. That’s when he saw the dangling arm sticking out from under a beam. Gods, Dixie. Alfred had covered her with his own body, but even then, then damage was…significant. Her entire arm was twisted out of the socket, protruding from beneath her. Arthur and Francis rushed to pull the debris off of them. Shit, Alfred looked beaten up. He was covered in still-healing burns, and there was hardly a scrap of uninjured skin on him. His eyes were open but only halfway and glassy-looking even beneath the shattered frame of his glasses. Blood seeped from a massive wound in his shoulder where muscle was just beginning to reform, his clothes practically ripped from his body.

After what felt like hours, they managed to get Alfred pulled out, but he was automatically trying to get back in to get to Dixie.

“Oh, merde,” Francis whispered.

“Christ.”

She had obviously been te closer of the two when the blast went off. Most of the skin on the right side of her face was gone or badly burned. Her arm was indeed twisted up behind her and the arm itself looked like it was shattered. Protruding from her chest was a warped metal beam, her shirt covered in blood. Both legs were at funny angles, the knees ripped to shreds by the low-lying explosives. She…she was dead. But as soon as Alfred started moving her, those dark blue eyes shot open and she screamed. IT didn’t sound human. It sounded like her throat was sizzling in the back of her throat. Arthur paled and tried to get Alfred to let go, but he shoved him away and managed to get her upper body on his chest. There was so much blood.

“Get a stretcher in here!” Arthur screamed. “We have two survivors!”

Dixie started to cough violently, her lips moving sluggishly. "D-Did...is he...?" she managed.

Arthur nodded and knelt next to her, moving her hair out of her eyes. "Yes, love, you got him. Everything's alright now. It’s over. You can sleep."

“You did so well, belle,” Francis said as he stroked her hand gently. Tear tracks were already visible amongst all the soot on his face. “You did better zan anyone of us could ‘ave.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Alfred snarled like a raving animal. “You shut your fucking mouth! She’s staying awake!”

The relaxed look that came made Arthur's heart drop into his shoes. He recognized that look. He'd seen it one too many times when dying men accepted and embraced the death that was coming for them. He had seen it in every war and every conflict. He saw it up close too much. Now it was on the face of one of his own. She was about to give up. She deserved it. Dixie had seen so much war. So much heartache and pain and suffering. She was born of war, and—as many nations like her—had lost more than she ever gained.

Just as her eyes began to flutter, they shot wide in shock and terror, all of this was aimed at Alfred. She started grunting and pushing against his chest weakly, trying to get away from him. God, the poor thing was probably in shock, thinking Alfred was Creek nation. Alfred just pulled her closer, glaring at the floor.

"Alfred...Al...s-stop. Stop it! You'll kill yourself!" she croaked.

"Don't care."

Both Francis and Arthur stared in shock as her wounds started to heal. But…Dixie didn’t have that much power. Even as a nation, she couldn’t have pulled this off. But, then, why was she still alive? Why hadn’t she passed while they’d been digging them out or instantly after the blast?

She looked panicked as she stared pleadingly at Arthur. "H-He's...giving me too...too much life f-force."

Without hearing anything further, Arthur savagely jerked Dixie out of Al's hands and pulled her away by her twisted, shattered arm. The screams from the both of them were like something from his conjurings. If Alfred gave her too much, he'd end up dying, only slowing her death. Then the country they both loved would go down in flames. He was too important. Dixie's life—though important and obviously loved—wasn't worth the fate of the world. If America went down, everything would change, and not for the better. Economies would crash, wars would start, crime would spike, terrorism would become a petty crime. They needed the superpower to survive, or else the entire international infrastructure would collapse around them. Dixie realized that and was willingly throwing away her life.

"No! Stop! Let me, dammit!" Alfred snarled as he struggled to get her back from Arthur.

"A-Alfred...sweetie," she choked out with a watery smile and equally watery eyes. Arthur got down and put pressure on the flesh around the warped, still-warm metal. "It's gonna be okay...it'll be okay."

"No!" 

The paramedics were pulling Alfred onto a gurney. A second gurney came for Dixie, and not a moment too soon. She was barely conscious, blood dribbling from her mouth and coloring her lips andteeth a deep, almost black shade of crimson. The blood coming from her wound was slowing. Her heart was giving out. Arthur thought of Alfred as a son, and the terrified, defeated look in his eyes just then...this girl was special to make him have that look. Arthur looked back at Dixie and swore. Her eyes were dull, lifeless. She was…she was gone. A paramedic was climbing onto the gurney to start CPR. It was no use. She was too far gone. Only…

Arthur’s eyes lit up as he saw the fading magic on her chest. That was her only chance now. Sighing, he reached out as he gathered magic in his fingertips, brushing them over her arm as he pretended to walk past the gurney. She jerked against his touch as life-giving power shot through her. A gasp rattled through her chest. Arthur looked back just in time to see surprised blue eyes gawking at the ceiling as she struggled to fight off the medic. Her eyes slipped shut again only moments later, but she was safe now. 

"Consider this my birthday gift to you, lad. I never could manage to do you right. Hopefully I've redeemed myself here."

-/-/-

"Louise? It's Dixie."

"Oh! Dixie, dear, what a surprise!" The woman was clearly smiling on the other end of the line; that was a good sign. "How are you? I haven't seen you in months.”

"I know. Sorry ‘bout that. I been...busy." A brief pang of guilt flashed through her chest. She had promised Louise support if she needed it and then gone gallivanting off without so much as a warning. Necessary, certainly, but not a very nice thing to do. Then there was the two months of healing. And hse still wasn’t anywhere near healed enough.

"Is everything okay? You sound like you’ve got a rattle in your chest, sweetie.”

“You’d be surprised.” Honestly, it seemed like everything and their dog was lodged somewhere in her. They had just gotten the last of the metal from her right lung. Taking a deep breath, she got down to the real reason she called. "We got ‘im, Louise. We got the man who killed Malachi."

Silence hung heavy on the line for several long seconds, and Dixie began to rethink the wisdom of sharing this information, opening wounds that had barely begun to heal. But she needed the closure. It would help her heal. Like it was healing Dixie.

"…Oh…." Her voice was shaky, the unmistakable tremor of someone holding back tears. "Oh my….t-the man who…."

The guilt returned, gnawing at Dixie’s gut like some kind of animal. "I'm sorry. I know it's painful." Swallowing hard against her own emotion, she pressed on. "I just...thought ya should know. That you’d want-"

"Who was it?"

There was no mistaking the firm resolve in her tone. "…a man who did a lotta bad and very little good."

"And where is he now? Prison?"

"The morgue." Taking another deep breath, she continued. "I got the autopsy report in fronta me now. He's gone for sure."

"Then the bastard won't hurt anyone else ever again." Dixie blinked in surprise at the fire in the older woman's tone. "I hope you gave him hell, dear. It's what he deserved."

"I gave him nothing but it til the end, ma'am." She shifted uneasily, grimacing at the tugging sensation in her sides. "I hate ta cut this short, but I'd rather not say too much more on the phone. I’ll swing by the café as soon as I’m able. Alright?"

"Make sure you do, dear. I look forward to seeing you." The friendly tone was back, seeming distinctly out of place after her miniature tirade. "And bring Stonewall and Ulysses with you! I miss those two terribly."

Hanging up after saying her goodbyes, Dixie settled back and picked up the photos Alfred had left behind when he left to grab her something to eat. One photo, of that bastard’s head and shoulders on the autopsy table, showed his eyes as closed. Tucking the others behind it, she focused on that one. She was still sitting up in her hospital bed, the sheets up around her waist as she went slowly, methodically, through the autopsy report included with the pictures. Her own pulse and the hiss of oxygen were the only background noise.

"You keep staring at those pictures, and I'm going to start wondering if you're really as okay as you say you are," Alfred said from the doorway.

"It's just...hard ta believe it's over," she murmured, turning to the second page of the report. "I was on the run fer long enough, was stressed over it fer long enough, then fer it ta just…end. Seems mighty anticlimactic."

"I know."

Looking up, Dixie gave him a half-smile as he shook a protein shake and stuck a straw in it before offering it to her. She took a long sip and savored before swallowing. "So we gonna go back to the usual arrangement? I watch yer back, insteada the other way around?"

"No way; I'm still watching you." He grinned. "We've still got a much bigger job to do, you and I." He sat near her legs on the bed as he pulled the table over and sat the report down after snatching it from her. "I'm just glad you're okay."

He leaned forward to kiss her, his hand brushing against her neck in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, eliciting a grimace. IT was still hard…embarrassingly so. Alfred snatched his hand away looking like he stepped on a baby.

"Fuck! Shit! Sorry, I'm sorry!"

There was a brief pause between them before she laughed, shaking her head self-depreciatingly. "I'm fine. It’s just gonna take time." Her smile widened. "You shoulda seen the look on yer face."

"Forgive me for worrying," he muttered darkly, his hand dropping to his side. His glare only lasted a moment before his expression softened. "But it's good to see you smiling again."

"I could say tha same for you. According ta Texas and Louisiana Purchase, you’ve become quite the taskmaster while I’m outta commission.” He smiled as she ran her fingers through his wheat blonde hair, leaning into her touch. "You should go get some sleep. Ya look like shit."

"My thoughts exactly. Though you and I both know it's so much easier for me to relax when you're around."

Dixie smiled and carefully shifted to give him a bit of extra room as he stretched out beside her as she reclined the bed. Cautious fingers explored the bandaging littered across her body with a light touch, his head resting on her good shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and this time, Dixie let him. She was tired, and she had pressed the button to administer more morphine. "I'm lucky to have someone who's so understanding when I do stupid shit like drug their drinks."

Dixie laughed quietly. "Someone has ta put up with yer bullshit." Tilting her head back to look up with him, she brushed her nose against his. "Not to mention make sure ya do yer work, stay outta trouble, don't accidentally set yerself on fire, don't get yerself shot-"

He snorted. "You've made your point. I've got a lot to thank you for, and a lot to feel lucky about." Pulling back just far enough that he could look her in the eye, he hesitated, sudden nervousness sending tingles down through his chest and arms. "And being someone that doesn't always know how to express himself properly...This is kind of difficult for me to say, but…." His smile came out lopsided and sheepish. "All that looking out for me…it's one of dozens of reasons why I love you."

He had the pleasure of seeing a rare, full smile spread across her mouth just before Dixie initiated a brief, innocent kiss. "That's good. 'Cause I'm fairly certain that I love you, too. I doubt I woulda followed you all this time if I didn't." The quiet hospital room, the silence, the stillness of it all…it only helped to drive home the last relieving fact. It was finally over. She was finally safe. She was hardly recovered though. She doubted she ever would be, but she and Alfred would work through it. Like they always did. Her fingers curled together with his, the heartbeat resonating from her chest keeping time with his own. 

Safe.