I do not own any characters. Just the plot.

Based just after the Cold War.

The doctors had said that he wouldn't say much, that he'd be too confused for the next few hours, but America had to see him. He'd wanted to see Russia for a long while, to see his rehabilitation, but he hadn't thought that they'd be doing this to him.

Russia had never liked his bosses - America Knew that much - and now he was beginning to understand why. Everyone had told him the chosen treatment was perfectly safe, but America could hear the trembling in their voices, concern for their country. America may not have been the brightest Nation, but he wasn't that stupid. And then there had been the simple fear in Russia's eyes, and the fact that they had to conserve anesthetic, so they hadn't bothered with it for him.

America had known that the free market could hurt sometimes, but it was never like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

But Russia, in his bed, looked calm, so different than the violently seizing man America had seen just an hour ago.

"Good morning" said Russia, even though it had been evening when the treatment began, the plan being to allow him to stay overnight and get back to work tomorrow. Whether he was feeling up to it or not was not a part of the question.

Couldn't he see the light from the window grow dimmer, not brighter?

America sat on the edge of the bed. Never before had he seen such a large man look so frail.

"Do you hate me?" asked America, "For this? For… everything?" He just had to remind himself that Russia would get better. He'd have to.

Russia had never liked his bosses. America had agreed, though these bosses were a poison, one that would spread throughout the world. And he'd wanted to save them all.

"Hate your?" asked Russia, bemused, "I don't hate you."

America could have cried in relief. He would help, do something, for Russia, buy something for him, definitely -

"How could I hate you, Canada?"

America's thoughts stopped short. Well, he knew that along the arctic, it could almost be considered a border, but Canada? Who did he think had been staring at him from across that iron wall for so many, many years?

"You haven't done anything wrong. Come closer, I want to tell you something," said Russia, taking hold of America's shoulder, and pulling him forward. Even so ill, Russia was still strong, jerking America towards him. Russia sat up and leaned to close to America's face, breath tickling his ear.

"You are not your brother. You can't be blamed for what he's done. And… I'm glad," said Russia, "That your were the first to see me."

America sits still, for a moment, unable to speak, feeling like he's heard an ugly secret he was not supposed to hear. They sit quietly until Russia giggles, his high-pichted voice ringing in America's ears.

"You smell!" he laughs, pulling America closer, "You smell like French fries! Would that be… poutine! I've never had it before." And to be quite honest, America hadn't, either.

He felt tears roll down his cheek.

"It's a nice smell," Russia mussed lightly, wiping away a tear. "And don't worry. I know you are lonely, and I'm lonely now, too. You see, everyone else has left me, gone back to their homes… but if we're together, we're not lonely anymore, right?"

"…Right," America choked out, trying hard not to let any of the pain show through his voice.