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"It's absolutely disgusting," you said. England nodded. In front of you both lay a small child, the equivalent of a troublesome and fleshy pile of dribble and vomit. The only you were looking after the baby was that a pair of relatives was out at the moment and they needed someone to take care of a four month-old sick generator for a little cash; you qualified.
"I think it's going to vomit again," England spoke, staring at you in a mutual horror you returned. The baby was choking something up and before England could assign himself the job, you told him you'd get another bib from the drawer so the baby could have a clean one after the next wave of milk and nutritional baby food would stain the former.

England had only decided to join you in babysitting because he firstly had no idea what he was getting into, and secondly wanted to hang out with you in a way that might affect some sort of subconscious, motherly ambition to have a child yourself - preferably with him. It was a little hope in the back of his mind that he could grapple himself out of the friendzone if he was able to present himself as half-decent father now. It was a hope that flew out of the window at best after the next three hours of standing on your feet and running around trying to find a pacifier so that the baby would stop howling.
"Oh god, oh god, why is it still going?"
"I think the nappy is full."
"I changed it a bloody ten minutes ago!"
"It's not my fault!"
"Well I'm not changing it again!"
"I'm drying wet bibs right now. You'll have to do it."
England ended up doing it again. He looked away as he did so however, and you had to correct the nappy he fastened incorrectly. Throughout the process, England simply thought that such a little bundle of limbs and snot was just not worth the effort of having to do this everyday. The only reason he didn't walk out of the door was that he was quite wary of any instincts that might flag him as an unsuitable husband if he did so, and he stayed, very wary of the fact that this was simply one of the many questionably sane things he'd do for your romantic attention.

It had taken six hours for the baby to fall tired in England's arms. Quite honestly, it was a godsend when his miniature arms stopped flailing and his eyelids fell and met his cheeks. Relieved, you both sighed. England looked at you; you looked at England - eyes crinkled with something that could only be contentment.
"It's done," you said. England nodded. He handed you the baby cautiously and you took it from him, placing him into a soft cot that had remained unused since you first saw the child.

Forgetting that you were not married, and that you were not the parents of the baby, you fell onto the couch and leant against each other.
"So much work for a such a little baby," you said.
"It's not too bad," England answered.
"What?"
"It's a lot of work but I think it's good practise."
"For what?" You asked. England's response came a little late.
"If we ever plan to have children of our own."
Silence occupied the space you weren't sure how to fill. You had not thought it was in England's ability to be insightful. To be frank, you were quite surprised England had plans resembling having a family in the first place; it didn't seem like something he'd want.
"Do you plan on having children?" Your question was tentative as you were worried you'd strike into some personal hotspot he'd not want to share information about.
His instinctive response was to tell you to back off.
"Maybe."
The answer was only a definite yes to him if you were the mother.

Your own realisation of the fact came quickly, up until the point in which you could barely see it coming yourself.
"I can see you as a dad you know."
England flushed. He basked in the victory. He was floating. You may not have quite recognised him as a potential father of your children, but a father in general was pretty close enough. He felt brave; perhaps now he could now pull one of those moves that would fit halfway through the friendzone and being a boyfriend? Maybe if he just leant his head on your shoulder, pretending to be tired-
"You're a lot like my dad actually. Maybe that's why I hang out with you so much."
England groaned. He was falling. You had noticed his sudden change of mood.
"England are you alright down there?"
No. He certainly was not alright down there. Had he really managed to dig his way further into the friendzone? How in the world's cruelest humours had he managed to do that? Were the two of you really that incompatible?
"England?"
"I'm fine. I'm just- tired. All this running around can get to someone's head."
"Yeah. Same. You can take a nap on the couch if you want."
"I think I might."
"Do you want anything to eat before you go?
"No I think I'll just-"
"Hubby?"

It was a joke, he told himself. A god-damn, god-forsaken, god-awful joke. It had caught him by surprise and he leapt onto it before he could think, tearing it apart with hopeful over analysis. Once his senses caught up, he retreated from the mangled carcass in disappointment, red-faced and angry with everything. 'It starts with jokes', a minute voice in his head muttered. 'She's playing on the situation', a stronger voice interrupted.
"Maybe a sandwich or two, wifey." England said. He found his own voice to be stronger than the other two. Joking back had turned out to be flirting on the safe side - it was ideal.
"Make it yourself hubby. I'm always doing everything in this house."
"That's only because I work ten hours a day."
"Your work is more important than your family!"
"Because I need the money to support our child!"
"This would have never happened if you stayed at my mother's house!"
"Your mother hates me!"
It was at that point where you burst into a tied fit of chuckles and snorts and laughter. England was shyly chuckling into his hand until the pressure got too great for him, and he released a haphazard and wild laugh that sounded like the most wonderful thing you had ever heard. Perhaps it was just nice to see him break out of the shell that occupied him. Perhaps he had a nice laugh.

Once you were done, you leant against his chest in a way he'd hoped could only be romantic. He was content, albeit a little nervous, when he took to running his fingers through your hair, grasping strands and curling your hair onto his finger.
"England?" Your voice was tired, polite and expecting.
"Hm?"
"I can see you as a husband you know."
England was floating again.