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Britain walks along a dark road path, feeling his spine crawl with every shadow in the woods. He will never understand why his son insists on living here, in some rickety cabin quite literally in the middle of nowhere. How does he even operate as a representative if the trek to reach him is already a daunting task?
Just ahead, the wooden cabin looms. It looks almost broken from the outside - the wood is ripped, some of it is somehow sagging sideways, and a chimney vomits out smoke, making the entire area taste faintly of ash.
The floorboards creak under his feet as he steps up the porch steps, and is met, once again, with a hideous knocker of a grotesquely carved eagle head. Why can't he even use a better animal - ?? a lion would be far nicer.
Still, he reaches for it and raps it firmly against the door.
On the fourth hit, the door is abruptly swung open, and Britain nearly falls over, stumbling directly into the person behind it. He catches himself on the doorframe, heart racing.
"Christ. Britain, I knew you were getting on in years, but you'd better get those knees checked."
America stares down at him, looking vaguely surprised. Britain glares up, resisting the urge to give him the bird. His son doesn't seem to notice his expression, peering behind Britain.
"You weren't followed, were you?" America checks, glancing through the woods. Britain groans, straightening to walk inside America's chaotically cozy cabin.
"Of course not. I know how paranoid you are," Britain snaps, rubbing his lower back. Not because he was getting old. He just injured it.
"Good." America says, and quickly shuts the door. "Can't trust anyone nowadays!" He slings an arm over Britain's shoulder, staring at him with cheerful eyes. "Everyone's got a chance of being a red."
Britain stares back into those blue eyes too similar to his own. They're different, somehow. More manic.
"Are you already affected by the government shift??"
America uncurls himself from Britain, turning away. "Well, you know how fast my elections are. Eisenhower's been pretty quick at rooting out any possible weak points for the commies to dig into. Pragmatic, that one."
His hands twitch as America walks into the kitchen, leaving him in the living room. Then maybe, maybe, this will actually work. Britain doesn't keep up too much with America's politics, but he knows that that new president is extremely anti-communist. An idea forms in his head - if he can just convince America, then perhaps - perhaps Britain would be saved after all.
Saved. He frowns. That - that sounds pathetic. Relying on others to save him.
But what choice did he have? Iran already kicked out all his diplomats and forbade him from entering again. And he needs his oil flowing now, not in a few years, not in a year, not in a few months. Without it, nothing in his empire runs.
All thanks to that bloody Iranian minister.
America returns to the living room, gesturing for him to sit by the table haphazardly crammed in the corner. In his hands, he carries an already-boiled kettle and two teacups.
Britain seats himself, accepting a cup. It's warm but cooled enough to hold, and when he tastes it, it's not awful. America still remembers his favorite after all.
America watches him. "You like it? I had to scour the markets to find it." He sighs, taking a small sip. "You have some weirdly expensive tastes, Britain."
"It's good." Britain says bluntly, blowing on the top. "... thank you."
His son raises a brow but doesn't comment. Britain takes another drink, eyes glancing through the room. To his surprise, there's no weapon of any kind in sight this time. Did he clean up?
More likely that they're there and you just can't see them, a voice whispers.
"So," America says, breaking his thoughts, "what's sparked this visit? I can't imagine my dear old father came all the way here for a casual checkup. How's France doing, by the way?"
Britain blinks. France? He hadn't spoken to her lately - their correspondences had been hindered by their respective work schedules, hers especially. "She's fine," he mutters, placing the cup on the provided platter. But that's not why I'm here. His fingers tighten around the handle of the cup. His oil troubles weren't going to solve themselves, and Mosaddegh isn't going to get any weaker on his own.
"But I need to talk to you about Iran-"
America's face darkens at the mention.
"For the last time, Britain, I told you, I'm not interested." America snaps, placing his cup down with a hard clink. "This whole affair in the east - whatever you're trying to do with Mosaddegh - I don't want to be involved." He turns the handle, staring into the dark tea. "Iran is fine as-is. He's been yanked around by you lot enough already."
Britain takes a sip of his tea. Your lot? Like America wasn't trying to influence Iran too, even if under the pretense of kindness. He doesn't comment on the hypocrisy, leaning back in the chair with a creak. Here goes. "Do you remember the Tudeh party?"
America raises his brow. "Their communist one?"
The other representative nods, setting down his cup. "Yes. The one that Mosaddegh refuses to rein in."
His son chortles, finally picking up his cup again. "That's a bold accusation, Britain."
"Am I wrong?" Britain challenges, shrugging. He needs America to get hooked on this, or everything will be for naught. "I told Iran - he needed to get firmer with that party's words. Clean their mouths a little. Can't have them spouting off more nonsense. Right?"
America doesn't respond, only watching him pause, pick up his cup, and take another sip. Britain continues on, exhaling into the tea. "He told me, in what I can only articulate as, 'fuck off'."
A loud bark of laughter erupts from America. "Yeah, no shit, I'd tell you the same thing too." But his eyes narrow slightly, something new in his gaze.
"Doesn't this seem awfully... suspicious, though?" Britain sets down his cup, leaning forward across the table. "Soviet refuses to leave the region for years after I did, and even though they've appointed this so-called 'democratic' nationalist, he's starting to let the communists run amok in his own country."
America squints. "...what, you think he's a commie?"
"I didn't say that," Britain clarifies, frowning. "I'm just saying that he doesn't seem to be quite a capable leader, is he? If he's letting the Tudeh start to whisper their propaganda, who knows what'll be next? I trust I don't need to draw a map to show you how close Soviet is geographically to Iran."
America folds his hands together, a scowl tugging at his face. Britain wants to tell him to fix his expression; don't be an open slate - but the name Soviet seems to be a trigger for his son, somehow. Either way, he takes advantage of it, leaning forward. "Since I don't think that having another communist state is in either of our best interests, I have a proposition."
"Which is?"
Britain pauses, licking his lips.
If he pushes too hard, America will shut down again. Refuse. He has to tread very carefully now - if this comes off the wrong way, Britain's oil supply would be gone.
"Mosaddegh is a good man. But he's over his head with the whole business of ruling - I mean, it's barely been two years and there's already outside influence trying to peek in." Britain says, choosing each word carefully. "He's not fit to dictate Iran if he'll fold to the communists so fast."
America raises his brow at him. "...Get to your point."
Britain keeps his face impassive, but inside, he's fuming at the disrespect. That boy, telling him to hurry up? Unbelievable. He takes another, quicker drink from the cup of tea, now cold.
"I suggest that we talk to the Shah. He still has constitutional authority after all... He could easily remove Mosaddegh and replace him with someone stronger. Or himself."
His son glowers at that last phrase, leaning back into his chair.. "Monarchies never end well."
Britain squints. "I am a monarchy??"
"You're suggesting to give the actual power back to the monarchy," America clarifies. "Your monarchy doesn't do shit other than sit there and look pretty for pictures."
He bites his tongue, choosing to scrape his teeth on the edge of the china instead. Calm down, he tells himself. America has always been nothing if not an obnoxious brat.
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Britain exhales forcefully, shoving the thought away. "Look - all we need to do is to get Mosaddegh out of the picture, and we can step back to let the Shah handle Iran's affairs. Mosaddegh is the one holding back Iran and he'll plunge it into even worse straits if we let him. But everyone'll remember who finally set it right."
Britain takes a sip of his tea, carefully watching America. Was that too dramatic? He might've overdone it. But his son doesn't seem to detect the sarcasm in his voice - rather, he seems to buy into it, leaning back forwards with something that looks almost like satisfaction. Too easy.
He continues, placing his cup down with a soft clink. "The Shah is young, he still has plenty of time to learn how to rule. I'm sure he'd benefit from being taught."
Britain can see him warming to the idea, the gears in his head turning. Frankly, Britain didn't care what ideologies America stuffed down that man's throat, so long as he let him keep his oil supply.
"This it'll be perfectly legal, by the way," Britain adds. "There'd be no need to worry about pesky reporters questioning anything. You'd be rid of a weak and unstable ruler and get to install someone who'll at least keep Iran a capitalist without even raising a finger."
America considers it, his gaze trailing to the side as his fingers fiddle with his cup. Britain watches him with bated breath; either he takes the proposition or he doesn't. Get rid of Mossaddegh or keep him and risk Iran turning communist. Let the country crumble, or rebuild it back up stronger than it ever was.
His son doesn't hesitate long. Always impulsive, that one.
"Fine. If you can get the Shah to pull it off, I'm in. But it'd better look clean."
Britain feels his lips pull into a sharp smile, raising his cup in a sort of toast. "Of course."