Cowboys and Gentlemen

England swore it was the cowboy thing that did it.

Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Perhaps it really had nothing to do with cowboys and had everything to do with national politics and the scale tipping back, because things always tried to level out. You could say policy was set in stone and ten years later you'd be at war with someone who just signed a peace treaty with you. He'd genuinely hated America for at least twenty years, and claimed to hate America for far longer, so it was really overdue for him to change opinions. When you thought about it, that was really probably why things shifted then, and not just because of some silly cowboy act.

But then again, the cowboy act was really something.

He was sitting on America's front porch, drinking iced tea and watching the sun set over the Texas plains, which sounded lovely when you thought about it. It wasn't lovely. He didn't like iced tea, thought it was a ridiculous idea, and had only accepted it to be polite. The setting sun was in his eyes, and the dust kicked up by the cows obscured the better part of the sunset anyway. It was blazing hot even though it must've passed eight, which meant he was dripping sweat, and he had the distinct impression that his dustiness was turning those sweat trails into mud streaks on his suit. He would have taken off the suit, but it would be rude to make himself at home before America showed up. That, of course, was the supreme annoyance. He'd been waiting for nearly four hours now and America had not deigned to greet him.

Oh, the servants – not slaves, though they surely would have been just a few years earlier – explained that Mr. Alfred was out herding the cattle, sir, and nosir, they didn't know precisely where he was but someone could be sent to get him and wouldja like a nice cold glass of tea while you wait, you must just be boiling in all those clothes, my Lawd.

The sugary friendliness, so different from the stiff formality of London, overwhelmed him, and he accept the tea and the seat on the porch with hardly a word, not sure what to say to such easy effusiveness. It wasn't proper, none of it. The ranch out in the middle of nowhere – America should be back in Washington, where he could be called upon to do things. Here, it took three hours just to find the man.

But the dust on the horizon meant the cows must be coming back, and presumably America was with them, so England stood up, set down his no-longer-iced tea, and brushed the dust from his suit as best he could. He put his hat on, then took it off. Didn't want to look like he just arrived. Then again, he didn't want to look too casual either, for all that this was supposed to be a friendly visit. He put the hat back on.

By then he could see horses among the cows, herding them. He thought so, anyway, not knowing much about herding anything but sheep. One of the horses broke off from the group and rode toward the house. None too fast, either. How lovely of him.

England straightened his cuffs again, not sure why he was so twitchy. After all, he saw America on a regular basis, at meetings and whatnot. The only different was that this was a friendly visit rather than a working one. A social call, if you could apply such terms.

Ah, but now he was on America's land – really on it, on the part that was entirely American and never his. He was under America's rules, and there was no buffer of politics or other countries or even diplomats between them. All he had was good will – in theory – and good manners to protect him.

Protect him from what was probably a good question, but then America reined in his horse and said, "Howdy, Arthur," and England was distracted.

America had got himself up in some sort of ridiculous, vaguely Spanish costume. There was a wide-brimmed hat hanging around his neck on a string, a loose shirt with the sleeves rolled too far up and the buttons unbuttoned too far down for propriety's sake, a pair of peculiar tight denim trousers covered by even more peculiar leather…things, and to finish it off, a pair of high heeled, pointy toed boots. He was dustier than and nearly as sweaty as England, and extremely tan.

It should have looked silly. What it did look was good, and England's brain rather stalled out before any adjectives more dangerous than that could creep in. It also, he had to admit, looked quite practical in an odd way, but he would tell America that. Or about good, either.

"What on earth are you dressed as?" he blurted out, which was rude, but not the worst thing he could've said.

America grinned and dismounted the horse, which was a pity, because it was clearly a willful animal and England had sort of been enjoying watching America sitting on it, his body shifting with its movements, legs tense with the effort of keeping the large animal still –

Ahem. England felt a drop of sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

America shook his head good-naturedly, tying the horse's reins to a post. "Hot weather puttin' you in a bad mood, Arty? Usually you're s'posed to at least say hello first."

"Usually you're supposed to not keep your guests waiting for hours before you show up." At least all thoughts of legs were now banished from his mind.

America untied the handkerchief around his neck and wiped his face clean with it. His face was slightly sunburnt, his hair streaked from the sun. He looked like a farmhand. He looked completely improper.

"Just got the message you were here," he said, stepping up onto the porch by England. He seemed to have gotten even bigger, if that were possible. Of course, the last time England had seen him was during his civil war, and he wasn't looking very good then. Certainly not good. "What's your business? Lawd, it's hot! Ain't you just dyin' in all those clothes?"

"I'm dressed perfectly decently, thank you very much," England snapped automatically.

"And I ain't?" America drawled, looking slightly hurt.

England stared at him, his mouth hanging open slightly. When had America learnt to understand implication?

America snorted when he looked at England. "Come on, Arty, you've looked downright horrified since I showed up. You've gotta be objectin' to somethin'."

"Well," England admitted reluctantly, furious at himself for letting his thoughts show on his face when he was supposed to be being friendly. "Your clothes are a trifle…flashy. And that accent is awful."

"Ah do ahpohlohjize fur ahfenden yew," America said, obnoxiously stretching every syllable into two or three. "But what're you here for anyway? You ain't never come out to my ranch before."

England took his hat off and spun it in his hands. Rather uncomfortably, he said, "I am here on a – a social visit. To increase and reaffirm the friendship between our two countries. Naturally, if such an unexpected visit is inconvenient for you, I am more than willing to take the next train back to New York – "

But America was grinning, and grabbed one of England's hands in an overenthusiastic handshake. "Leave? You just got here! Heck naw, you ain't leavin'! Welcome to the ranch, Arty! I'm excited to show you what we do out here in the West! Bet this is a lot different than rainy ol' London, huh? Wow, I can't wait to have you out herdin' cattle!"

In a moment he had transformed back into an excited little boy. England smiled tightly and said, "Certainly. I'm glad my visit hasn't caused you too much trouble."

"'Course not! We're always ready for guests here! I'll have Martha make up your bed, and Susan'll fry us up a big dinner tomorrow. Hey, Alex – unsaddle Liberty and give her a good brush. Arty, you gotta be dyin' in that suit, why doncha take it off? You showed up at just the right time, y'know. Tomorrow we're gonna be drivin' the cattle up to Abilene and you'da been waitin' weeks for me, but his way you can come with! That'll be great! C'mon in side and have something to drink – whaddaya want? Beer, or I've got whiskey. Or we got tea, if you're gonna be like that."

"I suppose whiskey would be acceptable," England said, once again feeling overwhelmed. It was as if America's personality had physical force, the sort of strength that left you wondering how exactly you had been persuaded into doing this.

"Whiskey then!" America bounced into the house, England following slightly nervously. "Lemme take your hat and coat. Really, it's OK, we're all casual here, this ain't London, you don't have to look like you're workin' all the time. Martha!"

A middle-aged black woman appeared. "Mr. Alfred, you kept your guest waitin' the whole afternoon," she scolded. "He was awful polite about it, but your manners was just awful."

"Sorry, Martha," America said, looking mildly chastened.

"Ain't me you should be sayin' sorry to," she said, shaking her head, and turned to England. "Can I take your coat now, Mr. Kirkland?"

England shrugged out of his suit coat and handed it, along with his hat, to the servant. She looked at America and harrumphed again, then strode off.

"Very bold servants you have here," England remarked. The way America had looked at Martha was the same way he'd looked at England when caught doing something he shouldn't have. That was a long time ago, of course.

"I try to be nice to 'em," America said. He looked over at the window, staring out at the sunset. "'Cause of…well, y'know. Before the war and all."

He seemed to shrink before England's eyes, the hurricane of personality drawing aside to reveal nothing more than a young man. England suddenly had the urge to – to pat his head, or clap a brother hand on his shoulder or something.

He restrained himself, of course, and gave a brisk nod. "Entirely understandable. But let's not discuss politics. This is a friendly visit, after all. What's this Abilene we'll be going to?"

America brightened up again. "Well, y'see, there's lotsa cattle down here in Texas, but nobody in Texas wants to buy 'em on account of there bein' lotsa cattle, and economics and stuff. So anyway wantin' to sell their cattle's gotta drive 'em up to Abilene, Kansas, and from there you can ship 'em to Chicago where people want 'em. I reckon we've got about a thousand head to sell."

"Right," said England, although he wasn't sure what driving cattle meant, or where Kansas was, precisely. "How long does this take?"

America shrugged. "Couplea weeks maybe, to get there an' back."

England sagged slightly. He'd been hoping to stay a week at the most, and had been planning to stay in a house. He didn't have anything for riding. He voiced this problem, and America laughed. "No problem! We'll get you fitted out like a cowboy. Someone's clothes'll prob'ly fit your skinny self."

"But I don't even know how to herd cows," England objected.

"Cattle," said America.

"Sorry?" said England.

"Cattle," America corrected him quite seriously. "Texas Longhorn steers. Cows are the kind up north with big that you get milk from."

"Cattle then," England said, annoyed. "I still have no idea how to herd them or drive them or whatever you're planning to do."

"It's okay!" America waved a hand dismissively. "You'll pick it up, and I won't expect you to be a genius at it."

"Er," said England. He didn't really want to spend weeks out on the dusty plains herding co – cattle. He liked a ride across the moors as much as any chap, but that was an entirely different business.

Still, it would be height of rudeness to leave now. Certainly not friendly, and he was supposed to be friendly.

But two weeks with no one but America and cows out in the middle of nowhere sounded like a plot to drive him mad.

But he couldn't exactly tell America that…

America made the decision for him by assuming a yes. "Sounds like a plan to me! Now let's get that whiskey, I'm parched."

He strode off into the kitchen. England blinked at his back. Oh dear. He'd gotten sucked into the whirlwind of America's personality. Who knew where it was going to drop him out.