APH - AmericaxCountry!Reader ~Help in High Places~

Tensions continue to rise in the unusually small, sweltering meeting room. The open windows allow the skimpiest breeze to annoy the sweating officials who sit around an oval table covered in legal papers and negotiations. They don't register that the two national personifications in the room haven't heard a single word since the start of this fiasco.

You regard America's personification with suspicion and half-concealed jealousy while his obvious confusion and curiosity only grates your taxed nerves further. Though you've lived for centuries, being a smaller nation has kept you from meeting what are considered to be the larger and more important nations. You've lived completely isolated, breaking your back and drowning in blood, sweat and tears to help your country grow into the strong nation it's now considered just for this moment – the moment when you'll be recognized by other personifications.

The stifling air adds fire to everyone's already boiling temperatures, bringing the negotiations of recognizing your country on a global scale to a screeching halt. Your ambassador slams her hands against the table and stands, hurling insults at America and his own irate ambassador. Rolling your eyes, you stand and forcibly tug the woman standing beside you back into her chair. The glare you send around the table quiets the annoyed outcries from the officials, and you speak into the silence.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. I believe we need to call a recess if we are to achieve anything in this meeting. Perhaps we should all soak our heads under the water faucets before returning in an hour.”

Their stunned faces follow you out of the room, and you smirk at the sight. You know what the Americans expected – a shy, dowdy and easily manipulated personification. You enjoyed the fact that you probably threw a wrench into their machine. Sauntering down the hall, you receive looks ranging anywhere from curiosity to contempt, though you act as if you're ignoring every single one. The building where the negotiations are being held is larger and far more eloquent than anything your homeland owns. You hope to one day have such things, but knowing that for the moment, this all belongs to America, bile rises in the back of your throat even as tears threaten to pool in your eyes.

Shaking your head, you dart into an abandoned hallway to your left, hoping to escape the glares and sympathetic looks directed towards you and find a moment's privacy. The longer you walk and more turns you take, however, only serve to distort your sense of direction until you're completely lost in the maze of a building. Turning your head from one direction to another, trying to ascertain your whereabouts, you decide maybe such a grand building isn't all its cracked up to be and that you don't need anything like it at home. In an inadvertent way, you got your wish for privacy, but now you'll be late back to the meeting if you can't find your way around and that's the worst possible thing that can happen at the moment.

It's not until you reach a set of stairs leading to the second floor that you allow your emotions to get the better of you. You claim one of the higher steps as a seat, rest your elbows on your knees, and hold your head in your hands. The traces of a heat headache have quadrupled in the past ten minutes of your wandering, rewarding you with a skull-splitting migraine that quails beneath the light and overwhelming heat even in this removed area of the building. Pain, coupled with emotional stress, physical manifest and leak from the corners of your eyes, teardrops glistening as they fall to the stairs.

Your projected strength crumbles under the weight of the possible consequences if this meeting doesn't go as planned. Though your country isn't considered poor, it's nowhere near rich in the needed resources for its people to live even mildly comfortable lives. Disease and death aren't as rampant as other countries you've researched, but they're still problems your people have to contend with almost every day. Is it too much to ask that your country – your people – receive due respect and help?

“Hey, what're you doing up there, dudette?”

Jerking, you glance, wide-eyed, at America's personification before hastily rubbing at your traitorous eyes.

“It's none of your damn business, pretty boy!” You snap in reply, quietly sniffling. “Leave me the hell alone.”

Instead of walking away from you as you'd intended, America approaches and sits a few steps beneath you, leaning his back against the wall in order to watch you.

“I'll take that as a compliment from a gal in distress.”

“I am not a damsel in distress!”

“You're certainly distressed, though.”

“I don't need your stupid help!”

“I thought that's why we're here, though.”

You slam your fist against the ground beside you – causing the wood to crack around your knuckles from your inhuman strength – and glare at the composed nation. Who does he think he is, sitting here and spouting nonsense when your people are suffering. His eyes widen a fraction at the resounding thud, yet he doesn't retreat, his eyes still watching your every movement.

“My people are the ones who need help. Not me, and if I have to grovel at your feet to get that help, I'll do it, but don't think I won't bite back if you test my patience.”

America's blue eyes calmly holds your infuriated gaze, taking the wind from beneath your sails. You try to stay angry, but under that look, there's not much you can do aside from wilt into yourself. Lowering your eyes, you cradle your already bruising hand to your chest and remain silent. You can't allow your resolve to break, but for some reason your anger dissipates under those amazing blue orbs so similar to the shining seas mentioned in one of America's national songs.

“You're dealing with those relics to better your country?” He questions, a faint hint of surprise startling you into raising your confused eyes.

“Of course. That's the only reason I've worked so hard my entire life. I don't want my people to suffer for something I've had little to no control over. Being such a small country, I'm forced to depend on those larger and stronger than myself...”

“So you decided to come to the hero! No problem, I can take care of it all,” America crows, his face lighting up as a child's does on Christmas morning. He stands, pulls you to your own feet and is power-walking through the halls before you can react to the changed situation.

“L-Let me go, dammit!” You stutter, struggling against his grip and failing to free yourself from his much more noticeable strength. Your jealousy rears it's ugly green head again, whispering about how that's what a large and powerful nation's strength feels like, and that you'll never know that kind of power while coddling your small, weak homeland.

“Not a chance, dude! I'm going to make those stuffy relics accept the terms of the negotiations so we can start helping your country as soon as possible.”

Your feet falter and you fall to your knees upon hearing his statement, dragging him backwards when your full weight resists him. America turns and graces you with a confused look, gently tugging on your arm to get you to your feet, but you resist. The blonde fidgets under your gaze and yelps when you pull him down to the ground so you're eye-level with him.

“You better not be lying to me, pretty boy. I value my country more than anything, and if you think you can screw with it, you'll learn to regret thinking that.” Your voice quivers with unrestrained hope and excitement, all pretenses of being the controlled personification gone in light of America's unbelievable offer.

He relinquishes his grip on our wrist and leans forward to where his face is only inches from yours. Heat gathers in your cheeks at the unusually close contact with a stranger, but it's his smile that makes your heart beat a hundred miles a second.

“I promise I'll do whatever I can to help you and your country...Starting with this, of course,” he mutters, reaching for your slightly swollen hand. You wince when his fingers touch the tender skin and your face explodes into a blush when he presses his lips against the darkening area. His eyes never leave yours as he does it, which makes the action that much more intimate and you don't know how he can't hear your heart pounding against your ribcage.

“I appreciate it, America...” You whisper, so taken aback by his kindness you can't possibly come up with anything else to say. He grins and shakes his head.

“It's not a problem, since I'm the hero, and the name's Alfred, sweetie.”