嘛 或许不是一点？
很迷的、别深究o(*￣▽￣*)ブ

“Yes,” America said steely. Let them tell him how his family members should be named and they’d learn, very intimately, how America earned his General rank in the Air Force.
They brushed off his glare and hit the call button.
A minute later, in an absolutely anticlimactic turn of events, the call was directed to voicemail. Canada’s quiet voice apologised from his phone’s speaker, “You have reached the voicemail of Matthew Williams. I’m sorry that I am unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.” The agents ended the call before Canada’s final ‘sorry’.
They toggled back to his home screen, and pointed to his wallpaper, demanding, “Who is this man?”
America didn’t need to look to know who they were talking about. The photo had been taken just over a month ago in England, with typical London weather painting the sky a dreary grey as cold rain drenched them both. Despite the bleakness of the downpour, America had successfully convinced England to smile for a photo with the Elizabeth Tower rising like a spire in the background. He remembered fumbling with the umbrella and his phone until England took pity on him and relieved him of the umbrella’s handle. Even though they were both wet and practically shivering by that point, the smiles that stretched on their faces as they pressed up next to each other in the photo were as real as the fingers that tangled together.
“That’s Arthur. He’s my partner.” America sat back and watched each TSA agent with narrowed eyes, daring them to call either of them any of the numerous slurs people have come up for ‘their kind’. It was difficult to tell for sure, but America was pretty certain that the woman gave him a barely there sneer.
The female agent nodded curtly, and proceeded to pull up his contact list. “Is this him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They placed his phone back down on the table and dialled again.
This time, the call was picked up. The Brit on the other end of the line was clearly not pleased with its timing.
“Bloody hell, America. This had better be good. It’s two in the fucking morning.” England’s voice was rough with sleep, which would’ve been incredibly attractive if America wasn’t being interrogated by his own people.
“Mr. Kirkland?” the female agent said.
A loud crash could be heard from the phone. When England’s voice returned, it was sharp, alert, and positively chilling. “Who is this? How did you get hold of this phone?”
“I am an agent from the Transport Security Administration, and I have the owner of this phone in custody at Washington Dulles Airport.”
There was silence for a moment. “Is that an agency in the United States?”
“Yes.”
More silence. Then England let out a sigh that was simultaneously amused and exasperated, “Only you, Alfred. What has he done this time?”
The male agent took over, “We have reason to believe that he is a threat to national—”
“No, no. I meant exactly what I said. What has he done this time? I don’t want any of your speculations about what his intentions are, because I can assure you that he is the last person you’ll ever have to worry about if your endgame is national security. If you told me he was a menace on the road I would believe you because god knows how many times he’s beaten the red light in London, but that is quite another matter altogether.” America could picture in his mind England pacing in his room, half-dressed in his ugly striped cotton pyjamas and running a hand through his already messy hair. His eyelids would be drooping with sleep, but his eyes would be bright and vividly acid green.
“As we’ve said, Mr. Jones is—”
“Look, I get it. He ran his mouth off and now you’ve got him detained. Before you ask, he had some meetings in Boston with its mayor and the governor of Massachusetts, and needs to be at the White House tomorrow for another meeting. His plans for tonight before being accosted involved a hot shower, two cups of bedtime coffee and a long, deep sleep. Alfred, I’ll place a call through to your boss to let him know you’ve been stupid again so he can come and collect your sorry arse from your own bleeding airport.”
America took the opportunity to speak when the two agents failed to respond. “He already knows. I was on the phone with him when this happened.”

“All right, you know what? I’ll fly there myself. If he’s contacting you so late at night there must be trouble at the White House. I doubt he’ll be able to settle your situation any sooner than I can. Agents, please keep this idiot warm and fed for the next eight hours; I will be with you shortly to negotiate his release. Alfred, you are paying for my fuel expenses.” England’s no nonsense, all business tone managed to keep the TSA agents silent for longer than they were probably used to when speaking to a loved one of someone under their ‘care’. America liked to think that this was the first time anybody’s contact person had ever been bold enough to order them around.
“Artie, you’re the best!”
“Yes, fine, thank you, Alfred. What’s on the agenda for the meeting you were supposed to have tomorrow?”
“Um, that’s sensitive information.”
“I’m not asking you to give me details, you twat! Domestic or international?”
“International.”
“Environmental, fiscal, aid, or starting another war in the Middle East?”
“You really know how to flatter a country, Arthur,” America said, slightly miffed. “Environmental. We’re trying to come up with new protocol to reduce our reliance on overseas fossil fuel sources.”
“I take homeland security’s not involved in this meeting, then. I’ll give them a ring. In the meantime, please just hand over your Common Access Card. They’ve really got no means to verify your identity unless they check your military database, and I really don’t think your rank will be much of a surprise after everything you’ve probably already said.”
By this point, the two TSA agents had given up any appearance of asserting control over the conversation and were allowing it to run its natural course, each silently hoping that this Alfred F. Jones would slip up and reveal something about himself.
“That’ll be even worse! They’re gonna accuse me of usurping some poor soul’s identity!”
“For goodness’ sake you’re so ruddy paranoid about your military that your CAC actually has too many redundant security fail-safes! They can very well just pick any of them and cross reference with the existing database, you absolute buffoon! They probably already think all your documents were faked anyway with the way you’ve surely gone on about your Boston meetings,” England sounded immensely ticked off. “Unless, of course, you think your security personnel have been trained so poorly that they don’t recognise the existence of information databases, in which case you should take a leaf out of my SAS’ considerably superior book.”
“Of course not! I’ll have you know that we’re on the cutting edge of technology!” America protested, cycling through the motions of an old married couple. As usual.
“Then act like it. And stop distracting me. I need to arrange my flight and I can’t very well do that if you’re hogging my phone. I’ll see you in a few hours.” There was a pause, as if some words were caught in England’s throat. Then, in a voice so quiet America almost missed, England hastily whispered, “Love you.”
“Love you too, Arthur,” America said, smiling dopily. He could almost hear England blush furiously through the phone before the line went flat.
He sat in silence with the agents, eyes still on his phone.
“Your CAC if you please, Mr. Jones.”
“No I won’t please. Am not pleased. It’s not my pleasure. I mean—ugh, why is English so stupid?” America lamented, slightly frustrated. “Would you pass me my wallet? It’s a bit hard to reach.”
The female agent obliged wordlessly. He pried one of his lesser used pockets apart and stuck a finger in to slide his military ID out, which was made somewhat difficult by the thickness of his fingers and England’s insistence on him using the slim as fuck wallet he’d bought in some little known town in England that wasn’t even on the map.
As he worked his card out, the TSA agents started to question him again. “How long have you been intimate with Mr. Kirkland?”
“A couple of years. I’m not exactly sure—it’s been a while,” America replied distantly. And it had been a while. It was almost exactly seventy years since they’d sat shoulder to shoulder in a muddy trench praying for the war to end, hands gripping each other so hard as if it could shield them from the bloodshed. England, especially, had been so thin, so drained, and so burnt in so many places by then from the blitzing and how long his country had been involved in the war effort. America had to check his pulse every few hours to reassure himself that England hadn’t yet succumbed to the war. It had been out of desperation and fear that tomorrow might never come that he pressed his chapped lips to England’s, cheeks damp from crying, but it was love that held them together for the seventy years after that.
“Is Mr. Kirkland a citizen of the United States of America?”
America couldn’t hold back a snort. England? His citizen? France would sooner be celibate. “No, no. Not at all. He’s the most British grump you’ll ever find; drinks tea with his pinkie sticking out and all that. You can practically hear the ‘u’s when he speaks.”
“What is Mr. Kirkland’s occupation?”
“He works for the British government,” America said, all the while thinking that England practically was the British government with the way he seemed to be working harder than his own Prime Minister. “He used to be in the Royal Navy for a while, actually, but he decided to suspend his service until wartime so he can focus on politics.”
“Do you realise what a precarious situation you are in? A US citizen apparently working in the government and in a relationship with a British government official is in the perfect position to double cross both countries, or serve as a spy to either.”
“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”
“I’m merely stating the facts.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve taken the facts and twisted them to fit an agenda you think I have.”
“Might I remind you, Mr. Jones, that you are being held on grounds of suspected terrorist activity?” the Agent said harshly.
“You may, but it doesn’t mean anything to me,” America said, suffusing his words with authority honed from ordering soldiers around for decades. He gave his CAC card one last hard tug, managed to finally wriggle it free from his wallet, and then surrendered it to the agents before replacing his wallet on the table.
He could tell the exact moment they’d read it by observing their faces. It wasn’t something he could fault them for, really. A General-ranked nineteen-year-old in the US Air Force with a pay grade of O-10 would surely raise some eyebrows anywhere, and that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that every other identification number on the back of the card was just a string of zeroes, which, yeah, really wasn’t helping to convince anybody of its authenticity.
The TSA agents were quick to pull out their walkie talkies.
America waited some more as the TSA personnel barked into the communicator to ‘double up’ and ‘make sure the computer has a secure connection to the military database network’. He surprised himself by not being remotely offended that they didn’t believe in the invincibility of the CAC’s resistance to fraud and tampering.
A few long minutes passed in which the three of them waited tensely for something to happen.
Finally, a group of yet more agents entered theroom carrying what appeared to be a ludicrously bulky laptop equipped with some peripheral accessories. Each of the new arrivals were armed to the teeth with firearms and body armour, which America personally thought was overkill.
His CAC was handed over to be inserted into the card reader, following which a gravelly voice from one of the armed agents instructed him to give up his PIN. America refused. His people’s inability to grasp that privacy was a thing was starting to irk him.
“Turn the computer over and I’ll type it in. I’m not telling you my PIN because it’s supposed to be a fucking security fail-safe and therefore private, not that you guys know what that word even means,” America insisted.
The agents seemed to consider his proposal before relenting. He quickly keyed in his code and returned the machine to the agents, whereupon they flocked to it like vultures to a carcass to see if the chip would authenticate his identity. It did, of course, because who do you think wrote that script anyway? America had encoded at least ten different ways to verify anybody’s card as an extra precaution and he would gladly show these agents exactly how legitimate he was by passing all those security checks. (And, okay, he was now beginning to see why England called him paranoid, but America operated on the firm belief that it was far better to be safe than sorry.)
The original unarmed TSA agents left the room speaking rapidly but quietly to each other.
“General Jones,” one of the remaining agents said, tone treading the fine line between wary and patronising, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” America imagined that behind the one-way visor the agent was giving him a look that said ‘You are a waste of my time, and there’s a television show I’d much rather be watching’.
“I’m guessing I’m here because I said ‘bomb’ in the hearing range of a security officer. You know, I think you guys know better than me about why I’m here. No one’s given me any explicit reason for my detainment at all and it’s already been—,” America glanced at his watch, “—almost two hours since I was first accosted.”

“All right, you know what? I’ll fly there myself. If he’s contacting you so late at night there must be trouble at the White House. I doubt he’ll be able to settle your situation any sooner than I can. Agents, please keep this idiot warm and fed for the next eight hours; I will be with you shortly to negotiate his release. Alfred, you are paying for my fuel expenses.” England’s no nonsense, all business tone managed to keep the TSA agents silent for longer than they were probably used to when speaking to a loved one of someone under their ‘care’. America liked to think that this was the first time anybody’s contact person had ever been bold enough to order them around.
“Artie, you’re the best!”
“Yes, fine, thank you, Alfred. What’s on the agenda for the meeting you were supposed to have tomorrow?”
“Um, that’s sensitive information.”
“I’m not asking you to give me details, you twat! Domestic or international?”
“International.”
“Environmental, fiscal, aid, or starting another war in the Middle East?”
“You really know how to flatter a country, Arthur,” America said, slightly miffed. “Environmental. We’re trying to come up with new protocol to reduce our reliance on overseas fossil fuel sources.”
“I take homeland security’s not involved in this meeting, then. I’ll give them a ring. In the meantime, please just hand over your Common Access Card. They’ve really got no means to verify your identity unless they check your military database, and I really don’t think your rank will be much of a surprise after everything you’ve probably already said.”
By this point, the two TSA agents had given up any appearance of asserting control over the conversation and were allowing it to run its natural course, each silently hoping that this Alfred F. Jones would slip up and reveal something about himself.
“That’ll be even worse! They’re gonna accuse me of usurping some poor soul’s identity!”
“For goodness’ sake you’re so ruddy paranoid about your military that your CAC actually has too many redundant security fail-safes! They can very well just pick any of them and cross reference with the existing database, you absolute buffoon! They probably already think all your documents were faked anyway with the way you’ve surely gone on about your Boston meetings,” England sounded immensely ticked off. “Unless, of course, you think your security personnel have been trained so poorly that they don’t recognise the existence of information databases, in which case you should take a leaf out of my SAS’ considerably superior book.”
“Of course not! I’ll have you know that we’re on the cutting edge of technology!” America protested, cycling through the motions of an old married couple. As usual.
“Then act like it. And stop distracting me. I need to arrange my flight and I can’t very well do that if you’re hogging my phone. I’ll see you in a few hours.” There was a pause, as if some words were caught in England’s throat. Then, in a voice so quiet America almost missed, England hastily whispered, “Love you.”
“Love you too, Arthur,” America said, smiling dopily. He could almost hear England blush furiously through the phone before the line went flat.
He sat in silence with the agents, eyes still on his phone.
“Your CAC if you please, Mr. Jones.”
“No I won’t please. Am not pleased. It’s not my pleasure. I mean—ugh, why is English so stupid?” America lamented, slightly frustrated. “Would you pass me my wallet? It’s a bit hard to reach.”
The female agent obliged wordlessly. He pried one of his lesser used pockets apart and stuck a finger in to slide his military ID out, which was made somewhat difficult by the thickness of his fingers and England’s insistence on him using the slim as fuck wallet he’d bought in some little known town in England that wasn’t even on the map.
As he worked his card out, the TSA agents started to question him again. “How long have you been intimate with Mr. Kirkland?”
“A couple of years. I’m not exactly sure—it’s been a while,” America replied distantly. And it had been a while. It was almost exactly seventy years since they’d sat shoulder to shoulder in a muddy trench praying for the war to end, hands gripping each other so hard as if it could shield them from the bloodshed. England, especially, had been so thin, so drained, and so burnt in so many places by then from the blitzing and how long his country had been involved in the war effort. America had to check his pulse every few hours to reassure himself that England hadn’t yet succumbed to the war. It had been out of desperation and fear that tomorrow might never come that he pressed his chapped lips to England’s, cheeks damp from crying, but it was love that held them together for the seventy years after that.
“Is Mr. Kirkland a citizen of the United States of America?”
America couldn’t hold back a snort. England? His citizen? France would sooner be celibate. “No, no. Not at all. He’s the most British grump you’ll ever find; drinks tea with his pinkie sticking out and all that. You can practically hear the ‘u’s when he speaks.”
“What is Mr. Kirkland’s occupation?”
“He works for the British government,” America said, all the while thinking that England practically was the British government with the way he seemed to be working harder than his own Prime Minister. “He used to be in the Royal Navy for a while, actually, but he decided to suspend his service until wartime so he can focus on politics.”
“Do you realise what a precarious situation you are in? A US citizen apparently working in the government and in a relationship with a British government official is in the perfect position to double cross both countries, or serve as a spy to either.”
“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”
“I’m merely stating the facts.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve taken the facts and twisted them to fit an agenda you think I have.”
“Might I remind you, Mr. Jones, that you are being held on grounds of suspected terrorist activity?” the Agent said harshly.
“You may, but it doesn’t mean anything to me,” America said, suffusing his words with authority honed from ordering soldiers around for decades. He gave his CAC card one last hard tug, managed to finally wriggle it free from his wallet, and then surrendered it to the agents before replacing his wallet on the table.
He could tell the exact moment they’d read it by observing their faces. It wasn’t something he could fault them for, really. A General-ranked nineteen-year-old in the US Air Force with a pay grade of O-10 would surely raise some eyebrows anywhere, and that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that every other identification number on the back of the card was just a string of zeroes, which, yeah, really wasn’t helping to convince anybody of its authenticity.
The TSA agents were quick to pull out their walkie talkies.
America waited some more as the TSA personnel barked into the communicator to ‘double up’ and ‘make sure the computer has a secure connection to the military database network’. He surprised himself by not being remotely offended that they didn’t believe in the invincibility of the CAC’s resistance to fraud and tampering.
A few long minutes passed in which the three of them waited tensely for something to happen.
Finally, a group of yet more agents entered theroom carrying what appeared to be a ludicrously bulky laptop equipped with some peripheral accessories. Each of the new arrivals were armed to the teeth with firearms and body armour, which America personally thought was overkill.
His CAC was handed over to be inserted into the card reader, following which a gravelly voice from one of the armed agents instructed him to give up his PIN. America refused. His people’s inability to grasp that privacy was a thing was starting to irk him.
“Turn the computer over and I’ll type it in. I’m not telling you my PIN because it’s supposed to be a fucking security fail-safe and therefore private, not that you guys know what that word even means,” America insisted.
The agents seemed to consider his proposal before relenting. He quickly keyed in his code and returned the machine to the agents, whereupon they flocked to it like vultures to a carcass to see if the chip would authenticate his identity. It did, of course, because who do you think wrote that script anyway? America had encoded at least ten different ways to verify anybody’s card as an extra precaution and he would gladly show these agents exactly how legitimate he was by passing all those security checks. (And, okay, he was now beginning to see why England called him paranoid, but America operated on the firm belief that it was far better to be safe than sorry.)
The original unarmed TSA agents left the room speaking rapidly but quietly to each other.
“General Jones,” one of the remaining agents said, tone treading the fine line between wary and patronising, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” America imagined that behind the one-way visor the agent was giving him a look that said ‘You are a waste of my time, and there’s a television show I’d much rather be watching’.
“I’m guessing I’m here because I said ‘bomb’ in the hearing range of a security officer. You know, I think you guys know better than me about why I’m here. No one’s given me any explicit reason for my detainment at all and it’s already been—,” America glanced at his watch, “—almost two hours since I was first accosted.”

--------OVER--------

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