A big, strong, proud nation shouldn't look so... vulnerable, damnit.

Arthur couldn't help the twitching in his fingers when he thought about that night a week ago, while watching over the larger man in his unnatural slumber.

The ambulance had taken bloody forever to come- or at least it had felt that way- and the only thing he could do was watch over the fallen nation to make certain no one else harmed him. He'd had to wait in near silence, broken only by the wet sounds of Alfred's breathing, hoping- praying- that the bullheaded strength would carry the boy just a little longer. At least until a physician could stitch things back into their proper place, and allow his body to start healing on its own.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of blood, and professionally guarded panic, as the EMTs, unused to the strength and staying power of a nation whispered things like 'shouldn't even be alive- he can't last long' when they thought Arthur couldn't hear.

They hadn't given up, though. And neither could England.

The sounds of the heart monitor had remained fitful in the emergency room, while the doctors worked on removing the bits of shattered metal from the deeply unconscious boy.

It had, they told him, ripped through the vocal cords, and lodged next to Alfred's spinal cord, putting enough pressure on it to potentially damage the connection between brain and body.

Even without Arthur's admonition, Alfred wouldn't have been able to even make the attempt to get up. It wasn't just the loss of blood- America had been paralyzed from the moment he'd been shot.

He couldn't have fought back, and that only made the anger and horror sharper.

Arthur had paced the little waiting room a nurse had ushered him to, until exhaustion found him, and left him dozing on the uncomfortable chair.

A nation couldn't die that easily, damnit.

He'd recovered from wounds that would have killed an ordinary man himself. England had the scars to prove it.

And that was a good chunk of the worry that had kept him at Alfred's bedside from the time they would allow him to be there.

The scars that could turn the thin soft tissue thick and inflexible.

Nations healed faster than humans, they healed better than humans. But the scars that injury left might-

Arthur didn't want to think about the possibilities that Alfred would be confined to the hospital, and as much as he complained about the constant chatter, told him to 'shut it' on more than one occasion, the very idea that the voice of America would be forever silenced...

What that would do to America's people had yet to be determined.

Kiku and Matthew had been contacted. Both Canadian and Japanese forces had joined with England's own to watch over America, trying to make certain that no outside forces found out about Alfred's condition, and no outside forces could take it as an invitation to make an attack. They were the only ones that Arthur felt that he could trust right now.

Another attack was a nightmarish scenario that would, without a doubt, have finished America.

Both had snuck in visits to the injured nation over the last few days, however England found himself in the uncomfortable silence far too often for his liking. He'd taken to babbling, talking to the comatose Alfred about things that England couldn't recall.

Somehow in the blur of days, he'd found a small library, and now sat at the bedside with a book of poetry he'd found there. Arthur wasn't sure when he'd remembered how much Alfred loved to be read to, but found that reading the book aloud helped fill the emptiness.

""Hope" is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without the words/And never stops at all..." One of Alfred's poets, obviously- more positive than anything Arthur could think of at the moment. His vision was clouded with what lay in front of him.

"And sweetest in the gale is heard;/And sore must be the storm/That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm." The bandages covered wounds that were healing, but Arthur was afraid of what would happen to the weakened country- the weakened man- that he cared so much about. Though they'd had their arguments, their issues that left both pouting and sulking (He could never really admit to either, but he knew. And Alfred knew.)

But Alfred was Alfred. And Arthur knew that he himself would be right there to help. There was no need to worry, really.

"I've heard it in the chillest land/And on the strangest sea,/Yet never, in extremity,/It asked a crumb of me." Arthur let himself smile. Alfred had indeed rubbed off on him, if he was able to start believing that everything would be all right.

A soft sigh came from next to him, startling Arthur out of those thoughts, and onto the pair of hazy blue eyes that were now watching him.

"Alfred!" The book was dropped, forgotten, in his rush to grasp the nearest limp hand, to smile through the sudden rush of glad tears. (He wasn't going to cry, damnit. That wouldn't help America.)

There was an almost timid, pained smile, and Arthur felt the hand weakly squeeze his own.

His heart soared, and he tried to ignore the little voice that said 'That's not a real sign. It might be an involuntary reflex.'

"E-m'ly's alw's sweet. Din'..." Raw, raspy, painful- and nearly incomprehensible because of the way the jaw was wired shut to keep it healing properly. But it was there, and chased the little voice of doubt away. "know … y'liked 'er."

"Hush, idiot." Arthur leaned forward to brush his lips against the boy's forehead. "You're still healing."

"'Rthur..." The eyes were full of tears, just as England could tell his own were-(for the first time since that bloody night, when he was angryfearfulterrified that Alfred might actually die, and leave him alone with no one...) There was a hint of panic to the face. "was scared-"

"You don't have to be afraid, Alfred. I'll be here. You should rest your voice."

The hand squeezed his a little tighter. So pathetically vulnerable right now, eyes wide and very blue. Shivering slightly. Remembering how he'd always been, Arthur couldn't help the little twinge of nostalgia. Alfred clinging to him, or his brother when he was scared or hurt-

England merely took a moment to rearrange things, so that he could carefully wrap his other arm around America, in the best semblance of a hug that he could manage without hurting the larger man.

"Don't worry," Arthur murmured, "I will be here."

The arm around his shoulders was heavy, but welcome. The racing heart under his ear steadied, as the boy calmed, and seemed to drift into a natural sleep. Alfred would recover, and be back to annoying him soon enough. But right now...

Arthur found himself more relaxed as well. Everything would be fine. He'd move back to the chair in just one minute...

One more minute.

It was Kiku who found them, reading the situation with a glance.

Japan noted the look of contentment on the peaceful face of a sleeping America, as one arm curled almost protectively around England, who was curled up on the very edge of the bed against him with an arm flung over the larger's chest.

And the subdued smile on Arthur's face was relaxed, free of the usual and unusual stresses from the past week that knotted the heavy brow made Kiku smile himself, as he silently closed the door and left them to their shared slumber.