AmericaXReader-4th of July (According to America)

"Where are we going?" Your six year old daughter asked you.
"We're having a picnic, Annabel, remember? Daddy's waiting for us up the hill." You held her little hand, making sure she didn't trip up the slope.
"Why is Daddy on a hill?"
"Because we have a surprise for you, and we need to be high up to see it."  You told her kindly.
"Oh!" She skipped a little, looking around at the daisies scattered over the grass. The sun cast a warm glow around you as it faded into the coast line.
"Up here, guys!" a familiar voice called out.
Looking up, you could see the silhouette of Alfred against the purple and orange sky. A grill and picket basket were set up beside him.
"Hi, honey." You kissed him on the cheek, setting Annabel down on the checkered blanket.
"Hey! Food's ready!" He set down a plate of hot dogs and returned your kiss. "Let's eat, y'all!"

~~

"What are we celebrating?" Annabel asked, hands curled around a giant slice of watermelon.
"The day your awesome dad-o became independent of your fun-sucking uncle Arthur."
"Oh. Uncle Arthur reads me boring stories when he wants me to go to sleep." Annabel said.
Your husband turned to you. "Have we ever told Annabel how the Fourth of July started?"
"I don't believe we have, dear."
"I wanna know! I wanna know!"
"Well," Alfred began, a glint in his eye, "It all started in after this Cowboys and Indians war that Uncle Francis was involved in…

"Let's go over the mountains, bro!" Alfred waved the map in the air, pointing out his great idea. Arthur stood in the corner, wearing his stupid bright red coat. "I don't want to." He huffed. "I'm too scared of the Indians."
"But that's been our plan all along!" Alfred, who was clearly of superior intellect, argued. "We've always planned on crossing the Appalachians! It's our destiny!"
"Well too bad." England crossed his arms like a stubborn two year old. "I'm not going to help you."
"Fine. Than I'll do it myself." Alfred stated with a proud lift of his chin. And he probably could have done it by himself (it's not like a country as awesome as America needed the help of that crumpet munching Brit), if Arthur hadn't been a total prude and stopped him with some Proclamation.

"You see Annabel, Uncle Arthur was very mean to your Daddy. Which is why we never go over to his house for dinner."
"I thought that was because you hated his cooking?" you questioned.
"That too."
"What happened next, Daddy?"
"Well, let's see…I made up a few cool cheers, Arthur had a problem with me sending letters or something-that was pretty intolerable, we had a few fights and-Oh! I know! "

Months passed with England continuing to crush all of Alfred's brilliant plans. One day he came up to poor America, supplies in his arms and a dumb expression on his face.
"I need some money." He whined. "Can I have yours?"
"No!" Alfred was outraged. "It's my money, I've earned it!"
"Poo." Frowned England.
Alfred looked over the supplies. "Did you bring the tea? I'm all out. That stuff sucks but I got use to drinking it at your house."
"I brought it..." a cruel, sadistic glint appeared in England's eye. "But if you want any you have to pay me a million billion dollars!!!"
"WHAT? That's crazy!! I can't afford that!!!"
"We'll if you want the tea, you'll have to cough it up."
Alfred crossed his arms in protest. That was so unfair! An idea suddenly crossed his mind. He smirked; if England wasn't going to play nice, that neither was he! He scooped up the tea and sprinted inside his house. Arthur yelped in surprise and chased him into the bathroom. "Alfred, what are you doing?!?"
America held the tea over the toilet. "This is what I think of your taxes, Briton!" With a determined glance, he threw the tea into the bowl, flushing it down the toilet and looking super sexy and inspirational while he did it.
England fell to the ground and started wailing like a little baby.

"Then I got some common sense."

Alfred was in Arthur's house-he had decided it was time to make peace with him. He went up to England, looking ruggedly handsome and attractive as he always did.
"Listen, England. We've been fighting for a while now, and it's getting kind of old. So I brought you this." He held up a twig with olives on it. England raised a bushy eyebrow skeptically.
"You brought me a branch?"
"No, dude, it's symbolic. Of, like, peace and stuff."
Arthur took the twig in his hand, still clearly unaware of it's metaphorical significance, and snapped it in half with a swift motion.
"As long as you're under my house, you'll play be my rules."
A red flush boiled over onto Alfred's skin. Too long. Too long he had been living in the shadow of Great Briton; too many years of sacrificing and leveling himself, bowing to the whims of Arthur without a word of protest. Well, not anymore.
"No." It rang out in the room: a challenge, a final statement. "I will not stay under your rule anymore!"
There was a sound of breaking glass as a bald eagle flew through the window, releasing an angry screech as it dropped a sword in Alfred's hands.
"What?! That's impossible!" Arthur spluttered, "I took all of your artillery!"
"Didn't Lexington and Concord teach you? You can't keep weapons away from America!" He raised his sword. "Now, give me my freedom!"
England's eyes grew wide, than narrowed. He too drew his rapier, a malicious glint in his eye. "Over my dead body."
Alfred shrugged, "I'm flexible."
They launched at each other, swords cutting through the air, always met by the opposing blade. Steel crashed against steel-the state of both nations hanging in between the rush of air the swords pushed back.
America stumbled as England parried his thrust. He took the advantage, forcing Alfred's back against the oak wall and jamming the hilt against his jaw.
"Give up, lad." He sneered, "You can't beat your old brother."
With a strangled yell, Alfred pushed England off, slicing the air in front of him. A crimson line shown on Arthur's check from where America's strike had landed.
"I may have power in me yet, brother." He spat and England, a crooked grin on his lips. "And a few tricks up my sleeve…"

"…and then I pressed a secret button in the handle of my swords, and a bunch of lasers shot out! Arthur was blinded by my total awesomeness (and probably the lasers), and when he wasn't looking, I reached into my pocket to get my bear whistle and-"
"There is no way you had a bear whistle!" You laughed at the mental image of Alfred riding a bear.
"Did too! The Indians gave it to me when I gave them all my casinos!"
"And a laser sword? In 1776?"
"That's what I remember." Alfred shrugged.
Annabel pulled on the hem of her father's American flag shirt. "Then what?"
"Well, after I totally destroyed England in battle, some of my boys got together and wrote a Declaration of Independence, and then all of American's total badasses-oh! Sorry honey-all of America's super awesome people signed it.   Like John Hancock, John Adams, Chuck Norris, Indiana Jones, Abraham Lincoln, and all those other rad bros.

Alfred concluded his story with the beckoning of twilight. A light twinkled in the corner of your eye. Alfred must have seen it too.
"Look Annabel, it's starting!" He pointed out over the valley. A strike of light shot up from the ground and, with a loud crack, burst into the sky in a shower of colors. Her eyes lit up with a gasp. "What is it?"
"Fireworks!"
Soon the valley was full of people lighting fireworks in all directions. The air was filled with a million different reds, blues, purples, greens, and brilliant whites. Smoke and cheers rose up-a celebration of freedom.
"Why are they doing that?" She beamed, eyes shining with the multicolored reflection of the fireworks.
"To celebrate your daddy's birthday." You grabbed Alfred's hand, smiling.
She looked wide-eyed at the exploding lights. "I must have the best daddy ever!"
You grinned at Annabel and snuggled up next to Alfred. "Great story hun," you whispered, "but I don't think Chuck Norris signed the Declaration of Independence."
"Chuck Norris' signature IS the Declaration of Independence." He smiled, wrapping his arm around you.

You shared a kiss as your daughter giggle at the fireworks. "Happy birthday, Alfred."