[England has already admitted a lot more than he planned to when he initiated this conversation. Part of him regrets it, but he has to consider the comfort brought on by being told that America can't hate him. That's a considerable ease on his mind, if it's true. He has his doubts, of course, but it's still a nice thought.]
...we're just too...er, that is, you know... [They've got too much history. They're too close, sometimes. And England can never forget when America adored him like he was the centre of the world.
Eventually, he shrugs, fiddling with some more imaginary lint.] ...I just can't. I don't know that there's any need to thank me.
[He says it in a way that's more bashful than bristly; he doesn't mean to brush off America's gesture, he's just embarrassed at his own vulnerability.]
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...we're just too...er, that is, you know... [They've got too much history. They're too close, sometimes. And England can never forget when America adored him like he was the centre of the world.
Eventually, he shrugs, fiddling with some more imaginary lint.] ...I just can't. I don't know that there's any need to thank me.
[He says it in a way that's more bashful than bristly; he doesn't mean to brush off America's gesture, he's just embarrassed at his own vulnerability.]