Cowboys and Gentlemen: 2

The night was uncomfortably hot and England  didn't sleep very well. When America bounded into his room at dawn, he was more inclined to bury his head under the pillow than rise and shine.



"Hey, Arty!" America whipped the blanket off him, grinning annoyingly wide. "Up and at 'em! Susan's fryin' bacon and eggs! I even got tea ready just for you, an' we gotta get you ready to drive some cattle!"



"Urgh," said England.



"I got some jeans offa Alex, he's about your size," America continued enthusiastically, dropping a pair of denim trousers on England. "So get dressed, I wanna get you on a horse. And no suits!"



"Unghhh," said England, but America had already dashed out.



Grumbling to no one in particular, he rolled out of bed and pulled on the clothes America had given him. The jeans were uncomfortably stiff and, he suspected, none too clean.



Still, he decided, looking in the mirror, it wasn't awful. He just looked half-dressed. Not very proper, but nothing about this place was proper.



America whooped with laughter when he came downstairs, and England felt himself turn red. "It's your fault if I look silly," he snapped self-consciously. "You gave me the clothes."



"No, I reckon you're halfway there." America rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Gotta getcha some boots and a hat, 'course. Can't be a cowboy without boots an' a hat. But there's somethin' else…"



He frowned at England for a moment, and then held up a finger. "Got it!"



Stepping forward, he reached out and undid the top button on England's shirt. He would've unbuttoned more too, if England hadn't jerked backward, his face beet red. "What on earth are you doing?!"



"Mr. Alfred, you teasin' the guests?" A different woman entered the drawing room. This one was pretty and slender, her skin the color of coffee and cream. Of course, this only made England blush the worse. "Lookit him, he's redder 'n a strawberry!" she chided America, putting her hands on her hips.



"I wasn't teasin'," America said defensively. "He just went all crazy when I touched him!"



"You – " England tried to compose himself. "You tried to unbutton my shirt. That is most certainly not proper." And the only reason his stomach had twisted itself into a knot was because of that impropriety.



"Mr. Alfred!" the girl – Susan, it must be the Susan America had mentioned – scolded. "You gotta ask before you do that kinda stuff! Doncha know he's from England?" She leaned toward America and muttered, as if to prevent embarrassing England further, "They don't mention stuff like legs over there."



Now America was turning red and England felt the need to defend himself. "Now see here, girl, it isn't like that. We mention…" He forced himself to spit it out. "Legs. It was just unexpected, and I didn't know what he was doing. I thought it might be – " He stopped, then said carefully, "Improper."



America snorted. "Whadja think I was doin', Arty? You looked so buttoned up, I was just tryin' to loosen you up some."



"You could have told me," England snapped.



America threw up his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay! No touchin' Arty, I gotcha! Can we eat now?"



"Yep," said Susan. "Just came in to tell ya'll the bacon's ready. My bacon's world class, Mr. Kirkland, so you eat up. Man like you could use some meat on his bones."



She laughed when England blushed pink again. He felt a bit of an idiot now for making such a fuss, but…well, you didn't do things like that, going around unbuttoning people. Didn't America understand basic decency?



Everything about this place felt uncomfortable. America fit in, with his easy relaxation and his twangy drawl. This was America's land.



England was just longing for a nice drizzle.



The bacon was good, although England thought he could have done better. America chatted easily throughout breakfast, holding up the conversation without much help from England, who was feeling dour. He hadn't wanted to come here in the first place. Why did he have to be friends with America? They'd got along civilly ever since that business in 1812, and civil had to be the most anyone could ask of England, couldn't it? Apparently not. Now he had to forgive and forget and be friends. Now he had to spend two weeks herding cows with an overly enthusiastic America who had clearly forgiven and forgotten long ago (not that England needed to be forgiven anything.)



"Okay, so now we'll getcha a good hat 'n boots 'n chaps," America said, licking his fingers clean of bacon grease.



England wiped his hands on the napkin, then followed America back upstairs, to America's room. It was messy, of course, last night's clothing still strewn everywhere. America hooked the wide-brimmed hat he'd worn yesterday off the bedpost and flipped it onto his head.



"This' mine," America said, tipping the hat at England. "Hat's very important to a cowboy. Keeps off the heat, so you gotta find a good one if you're plannin' on doin' much time out in the sun. I reckon you can have my old one though, 'cause you're only here a couplea weeks."



He opened a cupboard and pulled a hatbox down from a high shelf. Inside was a rather battered brown hat of the same style. America handed it to England with some reverence. "It's old, so take good care, okay?"



"Certainly," England said, although he felt the seriousness was rather laughable.



"Now boots…" America eyed England's feet. "Looks as if your feet're smaller'n mine. S'pose I could stuff somethin' in the toes…"



"That's quite alright," England said hurriedly. "I have my own shoes, and I'm already borrowing everything else." In any case, wearing America's shoes just felt…a touch too friendly.



"So long as they've got heels for ridin'." America rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What else…chaps!"



"Sorry?" Not something more!



America grinned again and held up a finger, then dug around in the closet. He abruptly flung something heavy and leather at England, who went "Oof!"



"What on earth?" England held up something that was not quite a pair of trousers. It was missing rather important bits, and suddenly he remembered America wearing something like it yesterday.



"Chaps!" America took them back from England. "See, y'just unhook there here and then – " Abruptly he threw the chaps around England's waist and started to do up the buckle.



"AHEM," said England, which was the most proper way he knew to say, 'Could you please stop doing that because you're standing awfully close and touching me which you shouldn't be because we're not really friends and it's making me feel extremely uncomfortable and you – you smell really good which is something I'd like to ignore more easily, so step away.' "I can do that myself."



"Oh! Right! No touchin' Arty. I forgot." America backed up, looking not very sorry.



"Quite. And please stop calling me Arty, it doesn't sound dignified," England said, trying to make himself look dignified, which was difficult when he knew he'd just consciously thought that America smelled good.



Well, he did. Like dust and bacon and horses and something else underneath, which were not things that should have smelled good but did.



But that was beside the point entirely.



"Yeah, okay," America said, then childishly mumbled, "Arty."



England maturely chose to ignore this and concentrated on putting on the chaps. "You hook here? Right. I've got it."



He held up his arms for America to inspect. America laughed far too much, but said, "Put on the hat and you'll almost look like a real cowboy! Okay, let's go out and getcha saddled up."



The chaps were stiff and heavy to walk in, and the hat's wide brim got in England's eyes. Uncomfortable already, he carried his bags – "All y'need is shirts, underwear and good socks, I'll borrow you the rest," America said – out to the waiting wagon and headed down to the stables.



America was waiting, holding the bridle of a dun-colored horse. It had a splotch of white between its eyes that made it look rather annoyed. It put its ears back when it saw England.



"Whoa, Cheerio," said America. "This man here'll be ridin' you for a while, so y'better like him."



England eyed the horse warily. "Why does the saddle have a knobby bit on front?"



"Oh that's to hook your rope on," America demonstrated with a coil of rope hanging from his belt. "That's for catchin' cattle and colts when you're trainin' 'em. Prob'ly won't need to lasso nothin' on this trip, cattle're pretty well trained."



"Oh. Good." England reached out to touch Cheerio's neck, and she snapped at him. He pulled his hand back just in time.



"Hey!" America punched the horse in the shoulder. "She ain't too bad, really. Just gotta keep her in line."



This was shaping up to be wonderful. Two weeks of America and a bad tempered horse.



"So get on up, let's see what you can do," America said, jerking his head toward Cheerio.



England sighed inwardly and cautiously approached the horse once more. She put her ears back again, but at least didn't try to bite as he mounted her. "You know, I do know how to ride a horse," he told America. "We've had horses in Europe a lot longer than you've had them here."



"Fair enough," America said, now untying his own horse from its post. It was painted red and white, and much prettier than Cheerio. "But you still don't know how to herd cattle, so you're gonna get a quick lesson right now. Let's go, Liberty!"



He would pick such a silly name.



They rode out past the buildings, where a dozen or so cattle were milling around. "Most've 'em are bein' rounded up by the other cowboys," America explained. "But these'll do for a demo. Right, so say we wanna go that way. First we gotta get 'em into a group. You sorta just sweep back and forth behind them."



He demonstrated, making half a circle behind the cattle, and they began to bunch together. When America pushed his curve forward, the cattle likewise moved forward.



"See?" he called to England. "Not so hard! 'Course, it's harder with a thousand head, but we've got a dozen men to help."



"There are more people coming?" England was quite relieved. At least he wouldn't be alone with America.



America laughed. "How're we supposed to herd all of 'em by ourselves? We'd move a mile a day!"



"It isn't as though I know anything about this." I live in the city like a proper person.



America shrugged and squinted across the plain. "Looks like they're headed this way. C'mon, let's go back and finish gettin' packed."



He turned his horse around and started trotting back toward the ranch. With a sigh, England followed. Cows. Horses. Dust. Cowboys. Texas. He was boiling hot already and it wasn't ten in the morning. What he wouldn't give for nice misty London day.