A/N: First AmeriBela. Have any idea how frustrating it was to write this? It was. For me. Constructive Criticism is adored. Down right adored. Also, it's written for the HetaChallenge Table Challenge: Drunk.

Disclaimer: Will not. Could not. Will not, Could not, own Hidekaz Himaruya's Hetalia.

The storm began to erupt at three o'clock in the morning. He knew that was the time because the thunder and lightening began to tear through the dark skies at the time and successfully awoke him from a dreamless sleep. The first thing he realized was that he was safely in his bed and that his mouth tasted like sleep. Lazily, he slapped the hand that he hadn't slept on to the other side of the bed, and he felt the distinct coldness and rumpled bed sheets that told him that he hadn't rolled, unconsciously on the other side. His hand twisted in the white bed sheets, and he closed his eyes in thought. Outside, fat drops of rain pit and pattered on his bedroom window, and a strike of bluish white flashed through the sky, followed by a drumming sound of thunder.

The process was repeated. A precision of lightening ripped the clouds apart, and was immediately followed, or stalked, by the roaring thunder. It went on and on until he decided that he couldn't remain in bed and attempt to drift back to sleep; he reluctantly removed the comforter and bed sheets that protected his warm body from the crisp cold. He rolled on the side of the bed that was his own, and he shivered at the touch of the wooden floor. It too was cold, and he breathed in deeply, to gather his thoughts. He wiped is hands over his face before slapping one hand down carelessly on the bed stand, nearly causing the lamp to crash onto the floor. He maneuvered his hand until he accidentally slapped down on his glasses, and he messily placed them on his face, not caring that the frames were positioned crookedly on his face.

He moved out of the bed, found his slippers, and smothered down and out of his empty bedroom. He passed the closet that called to him to put on his robe, but he figured that it was best to go out bare backed with just his pajama pants and slippers to comfort him. His Virginian style home was no more a home than it was yesterday, and he was able to detect and feel the movements of the miniscule creaks in his house. Though the storm was persistent and was proud that it awoke him in a vicious and unrighteous manner, he was able to hear the delicate sounds of splashing water, not the raindrops, down the hall. He stood at the threshold of his bedroom and leaned on the wall, his eyes gazing down the dark hall where the sounds stemmed from. His first instinct, which he usually trusted, told him to venture to the other side and retreat to the kitchen where the food was located. And it was true, his stomach did growl impatiently, but he ignored his first instinct. He ignored the whimpering of his stomach, and he shrugged the last bits of tiredness of his shoulders and trudged on.

As he walked down the hall, he passed a wide framed window that gave a perfect view of the storm brewing on. He stopped for one moment, turned to look, and saw the branches of the giant willow tress whip back and forth, their leaves blown from them, their wispy branches appearing as mournful whips. The round moon, filled with deep indentions, was hidden by a mass of clouds that released more thunder and lightening, more rain and mischievous winds. Down to the right of his home, what he was able to see, he saw that one house was still awake. The lights were on, and shadows were seen from the less than large windows. He narrowed his eyes for a better look, but the sound of more splashing water, making contact with the floor. A sickening splash it was, scurried passed his ears, and he turned his head forward, began to walk again.

Running water made its appearance when he was midway down the hall, and he thought briskly that he should have built the halls shorter and more precise. He had enjoyed the times running down the halls with childish excitement, but it was early morning. He was filled with sleep, and the biological need to return to bed, though most of it was supplanted by the want to know what was going on, irked him. He continued without looking back, and in time, he was relieved, he made it to the room where the water splashed and ran. It occurred to him, the moment he stood in front of the closed, maple wood door that it was the bathroom and not some random room that he built without needing to. Beyond the door, he pressed his ear against it, he heard the frantic and slurred whispering of someone in distress, feminine, and his hand fell gently on the painted gold doorknob. His breath got caught in his throat, and a small voice inside his head told him that more than a storm was brewing behind the closed door.

At the same time he knew that it was something he had to do, and he closed his eyes, not rubbing his temples, and he opened the door.

White light slammed into him, and he cursed at the slight pain that captured his eyes. It was a natural body reaction, and he knew that it was the eyes automatic way to adjusting to the white light. He reminded himself that the reason why the light was so bright was because he had recently removed the dead one and bought a new set of light bulbs that were certified to be bigger and better. He remembered that he boasted to his companion, his lover, that this would solve their problems, her problem, with the lights constantly flickering when she was busy with her studies or work. He wasn't at all bothered by their former light bulbs, and he was somewhat saddened that he had to replace the lights that he had grown accustomed to over the years.

Eventually, his eyes did grow accustomed to the light, and he stepped into the bathroom that he built, staring around it expectantly. He didn't know what to expect, and he didn't know what to anticipate. He knew that there was something to expect and anticipate, and he walked around the good size bathroom quizzically, removing his hand from the doorknob at last.

"Natalia." He said her name casually but questioningly, "Natalia, you in here?"

She stood in the bathroom closet where the towels and soaps were found. Clutched in her hands and against her breasts was a bottle of vodka. Not wine, not beer, but vodka. She preferred the hard stuff. She was cramped inside the narrow bathroom that smelled of bath salts, his personal favorite, and a pink colored towel was wrapped loosely around her soaked body. Drips and drops of dirty water fell from her strangled strands of platinum blond hair, and she whispered, in her native Russian, that she wished he hadn't awoken at all. There was no light in the bathroom closet, he hadn't installed a light in it just yet, and so she couldn't see where she stood. But because it was small and cramped, she imagined that she was right under the shelf where the towels were held; she felt the wood and flaking paint of the shelf above her head. On the opposite side that was where the soaps were placed, she knew. She had made it a must to give the proper locations of the towels and the soaps, and anything else, and she had politely required him to do the same.

The bottle was beginning to sleep. Wasn't the first time. The water on her hands had forced her to slip it between her legs, somewhere the towel could prevent it from falling and smashing, but she had to hold it. She didn't know why. A compulsion. Then, sadly, she had fallen into the water, into the tub. She had wrapped the bottle in the heavier towel, and had mis-stepped, something she blamed him for, and slipped into the half full tub. It was embarrassing, and she swung her hands out helplessly, kicking her legs out in a sad attempt to pull herself up. Her naked body moved with the crazy current of the water, and her feet mistakenly kicked a bottle of shampoo and some razors off the corner of the tub. She was grateful that he ordered the massive circular one, the one she had ordered him to purchase, as her body swayed to the far left, and she went out gasping and pulling, like a screaming and squirming babe fresh from the mother's womb, out of the tub.

Then! It was then that she heard the slapping of his head down the hall. She knew he didn't know that he was absolutely tactless when it came to his strength, and it echoed, vibrated on the walls, and reached her in that disturbing but relieved way.

"No." She stamped the bottle again between her legs, "I don't."

Because she didn't. She didn't want him to know that she was awake, again, but the excuse that the storm had awoken her too came to mind. But it was him, not an idiot-no matter how many times she called him the word, and he wasn't going to be fooled by her slurred lie.

"You fail at taking baths." She heard his voice outside the closed door, "Seriously, I'm going to have to buy new razors."

How she hated him! How she hated him when he acted like this. He knew, he knew, that something horrible was wrong, and yet, he chose to act as if it the moment as simple as cleaning up broking shards of a Walt Disney mug. And he had done it too, after a stern lecture of the importance of preserving Walt Disney's memory, and then he dropped them in the trash. Simple as that. It wasn't fair! His voice was calm, unbelievably calm, and he walked with a trudge and lazy grace that only he possessed. It was inviting, and that was what he meant to do, she was aware. He wanted to invite her out, not drag her out, because that would be bad. Not wrong. Bad. She would fight him, naturally, and she would hurt him, physically. A bit of his pride too because she always got a punch in, but it was his calm and collected nature, that he managed to muster up at the worse of times, that caused her to go mad from revelation. That he! He of all people was more mature than she.

"Come on girlie," he stopped at the side of the closet door, "come out. I want to play."

"Fuck you." She said automatically, and regretted.

"You're mean." She felt the pout on his lips and ignored it, "C'mon, it's three in the morning, or three-thirty. I don't know."

"I didn't meant to wake you," she lied, "I was trying to take a bath."

He detected the lie but didn't pursue, "And you fail at baths. You know I'm the only one who can bathe you."

She fought the on rush of flames to her cheeks, but she was growing cold. Her hands shivered around the neck of the bottle, and it continued to slide down between her legs. The towel that kept her naked form concealed slipped down too, and she felt the rough edge of the towel graze against her breasts. She suppressed the shaking of her body and the anger from his comment, "You're a worthless shit head. That's what you are." She hissed from behind the door, but he chuckled at her insult. It made her anger grow, but she couldn't stand straight. The alcohol had begun to take its desired effect, and her vision blurred. Her body leaned to the right, bumping roughly on the wall, and then she moved upwards that caused her to slam into the shelves. Bottles and bars of soap fell, towels became un-stacked and tumbled over, and she hissed and groaned at the soft but hard objects falling on top of her.

"Damn it," she cried in her native language, "damn it all!"

Her head was light and dizzy. She stumbled and crashed against the weak door, and in one swift action, one careless action, she tripped over her feet and fell out. He didn't catch her. She didn't expect him to. Fortunately, she fell backwards, and she wasn't sure how that happened. One moment she was struggling to hold her standing, and the next she burst through the door and fell backwards. Her bottom landed first on the floor, and the bottle of vodka she held between her legs slipped out. She was faster than her intoxicated self accounted for; as the glass bottle fell, she reached her hands out, easily moving underneath her legs and catching it the moment it should have broken into thousands of sharp shards on the bathroom tiled floor. A crooked smile appeared on her face, and she leaned forward. Some drops flew out, landed on the floor, but they were invisible.

Splotches on the clear white floor, mixed with the dirty water, not to be seen.

"That was dramatic." He laughed, "Don't you think?"

"Shut up," she said weakly, "just shut up."

She lowered head and willed the throbbing pain to go away, the mixed vision her eyes saw, but it was pointless. Her stomach flipped and flopped, and she almost thought that she was going to vomit. She willed that down, and it worked.

He stood and watched her. She waited for him to say something. The atmosphere hadn't suddenly changed, but it fell into what it should've been.

"I'm sorry," she hiccupped and a bit of bitter vomit came out, "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"White Russia." He recognized the sweating bottle with red and white striped around it, "I thought that was for special occasions."

"This is a special occasion, you asshole." She sniffed and realized that her eyes were wet. She was relieved that it wasn't the saltiness of tears but the wet of her face and hair, "I want to drink."

"It's three in the morning, Natalia." He pointed out stiffly, "And I'm sleepy. And I really want to do this in the morning when I'm more awake. And though seeing you all messed up like this is really hot, too tired to get a hard on."

She swiped on his legs but missed. "You're going to hurt yourself," he said when her head connected to his chest, "I don't want that."

It was odd. Her face feel first into his naked chest, and she whimpered, lowly, because she hadn't noticed that he had moved down. He lowered his towering body, and she rested in his open arms that wrapped protectively around her. She wanted to squirm free, wanted to fight, but she found that her body was too tired and too wasted to move correctly. She tried, momentarily, she raised her free hand, but it dropped on his crouched leg. She released a heavy sigh, "You're not going to stop, are you?" He chuckled, and the air warmed her cold ears, her neck. No, he wasn't going to leave, and he wasn't going to stop. And that airy but cheerless chuckle was the answer to her question.

"I'm not so drunk that I can't get back to the room," she whispered.

"That doesn't mean that you're going to talk about it," he whispered back.

"Nothing to talk about." She clutched her hand on his knee, forcing herself up, but she kept her body close to his. He followed suit, "Things like this happen. I'll move on."

He scoffed, "This isn't a bruise or stumping your toe, Natalia. He's dead. He's not coming back, and you just don't get up from it."

She was able, the second time, to rip herself from him, and she glared at him. Her hand that held the bottle weakly swung it around, "That is what we do. This is what we do. And you do not get to tell me how I do it."

"Natalia-,"

"No Natalia!" In one unintentional movement, perhaps it was, she threw the bottle, the close to empty bottle, at the wall. The precious thing smashed and screamed, dropped to the floor into a thousand pieces, but he didn't move and stared at her with hard eyes behind his glasses. The light reflected the blue of his eyes deviously, and she felt uncomfortable, unsure, around him. She wasn't going to flake or draw in font of him; even though a falling pink towel was draped around her body, she wasn't. Though her mind was fuzzy, still, from the alcohol, she was going to defy him. It was what she did best, and it was what she did with great accuracy.

He was resolute on his stance. His eyes were hard but sleepy. "Yes, Natalia," he didn't flinch, "I've been fair, haven't I? I've been considerate and patient and all the things that I should be, but you can't do this."

"Who says that I can't?" She screeched at him, and took care not to slip on the mix of water and vodka.

"Insomnia can be stress related too, you know," he sat on the edge of the massive tub, "and you're under a lot of stress. Simple."

"You don't need to worry." She glared at him and circled, making sure she didn't step on the glass, "I'm fine. I am a Braginski first, and a Jones second. I can handle this."

"And a Braginski is buried right now, isn't he?" The cruel truth was said in a normal fashion, without bitterness, "And wouldn't Ivan be unhappy that his precious baby sister is becoming a drunk and losing her mind and waking up her husband at three o'clock in the morning when she knows that he has to be at work for seven. Wait, he would like that part; he always hated me."

"You are democratic bastard," she responded, "you were back then, and you are now."

"Hey!" He raised his hands and shifted his pants, "I'm the democratic, capitalist bastard that you fell in love with and married…mind you."

She rolled her eyes, but made sure that she didn't move too closely to him. "Don't remind me," she sucked in her breath, "I'm forced to remember that, that abomination of a wedding for years to come."

"It's a family tradition, y'know!" He defended the past jovially, "A Native American tradition that has run long and strong in the Jones family."

"Not even an Indian name," she said, "it was horrible, and it shamed my family."

"It was just a small change in plans."

"But it was my wedding!" She snapped, "It was my wedding, and you ruined it by persisting the usage of your ancient traditional ways. I hated it!"

He nodded, "I know, but it made Mom happy. She doesn't have any daughters, and Matthew was conservative with his marriage." Her piercing glare sent him back in time, some odd twenty years ago, when their marriage was shrouded in hilarity when compared to his brother's. She, the violent and crimson faced bride, angrily wrapped her hands around her brother-in-law and flipped him onto his back, right inside the church. She screamed and ranted, swore that she would never forgive him, but she hadn't cursed. That was nice, and he saw that she was woman he wanted to marry.

The woman who promised his brother that she would piss in his mouth and shit on his dog if she ever saw him again.

It was good fortune that she didn't hold up to that promise, but the explosion of temper was attractive all the same.

"You're misguiding me," she pointed out and leaned on the wall, not too far from him, with her arms crossed.

"No, I'm not." He smiled, "I'm just trying to get you out of your funk."

"I'm not in a funk. I never was."

"You're not good at lying." Then his smile vanished, and it continued to surprise her when he did that, "Ivan wouldn't be happy. He wouldn't be happy with you drowning yourself in liquor, and he wouldn't like you destroying yourself."

"You know nothing." She started at him through gritted teeth, "You have no right to tell me what my brother, my flesh and blood, would have wanted."

The smell of the fallen vodka lingered in the air, on her breath, but she was able to stand tall with a light slouch. Her intoxication was getting the best of her; she leaned on the near wall, pressing a hand against it. The towel that concealed her body was determined to stay where it was, but it was in danger of falling as the wetness clung to it. Her nails scraped the wallpaper, leaving small indentions.

"Are you tired?" He asked.

"No."

He made a face that was a mix of amusement and frustration, "Are you sure? Because you sliding down the wall."

"I'm not sliding down the wall!" She screamed, but it was true. Her body was sliding down the wall, and the towel that was so certain to remain fell to her feet. She cursed and ranted. Not at all embarrassed she was that she was revealed to him; over the course of their 17 year marriage, he had seen more, touched more, provoked more, than she would dare admit to acquaintances, to herself. She stood naked slouched on the wall, slipping on the crumbled towel. "Ball sucking monkeys!" She panted but couldn't get out another obscene thought out. Her hair flew across her face, stuck to her cheeks that were masked in sweat and water, and her legs were crossed at uneven angles. One was kneed up while the other fell lazily on the ground, bent sloppily.

Tired, she was tired, and she let her head hang low. "I didn't fall." She mumbled when he reached around and gripped her body in his arms, and for the first time that night she didn't protest.

"Whatever you say, Natalia."

The pain inside her head wasn't shocking, but it didn't deter the constant throbbing. The sun poured on her curled up body, naked still underneath the bed sheets, and she winced in aggravation as it tickled on her face, stirring her awake. Clutching the protective comforter and bed sheets closer, she snuggled deeply into her bed, wanting to return to the sleep that she had lovingly dwelled in.

"Wake up," he whispered tenderly against her revealed ear, "time to get up."

She shifted in the bed, moving from the voice that undeniably belonged to her husband, and ducked into the covers.

"Oh come on." He whined, "Get up."

He rocked her motionless body, and he hopped up and down on the bed, causing it to move stiffly. She was determined to keep herself warm and naked, bundled in the bed sheets, and she hissed obscenities at him that flew across his head.

"Pwetty, pwetty, please," he pushed his forehead into the crook of her neck, "don't be mean. Get up! Up, up, up!"

She swatted him away with a gesture of her head, too tired to hit him, but she missed her mark.

"I'll…," she growled beneath the covers, "I'll kick your ass later…when I'm not hungover."

He laughed at her, and her head ached at the sound. "And that is why you should not drink large amounts of Belarussian vodka early in the morning."

"You find humor in this?" She revealed her haggard face. Blood-shot eyes, and bags that were the shade of black garbage bags hung on her usually youthful face, and he couldn't stop himself from wincing. And then, as always, he laughed. He laughed at her atrocious expression, her wretched appearance, and without thinking, without taking care that his laughter brought her more pain than he'd realized, he tackled her into a bone-crushing hug. Her formerly soaked hair, which he strangled expected to smell rotten of the old water, was scented with the shampoo or soap that she used to wash it. Even if it had smelled awful, and the option lingered in his head, he would've tackled her all the same.

"Yeah, I do," he pressed his lips onto her cheeks, "I'm glad, glad that you're back again."

She scoffed at him, "I've always been here you idiot," she didn't press to make him move.

"You know what I mean."

And she did. For some reason, she couldn't find the answer at the moment, she felt guilty. "I'm sorry about that," she whispered on the other side where the door was, "not entirely, but most of it. It was unexpected."

"Death itself is unexpected," he explained solidly, "as is life and everything that comes with it. I'm not surprised that you had what you had, done what you had, but a bit for forewarning would've been sweet."

Abruptly, she turned to him. She had long ago found out that it was much easier to communicate with him when she was not facing him, when he was not backing her into a corner and no defenses left. But she had also learned that it was necessary, at certain times that she needed to look deeply into those near-sighted light oceanic blue eyes with an accurate amount of severity to get the job done. She looked at him, and he looked at her. His hand was around her waist, and she had tucked her own underneath her head, as a pillow. Her head continued to throb, but her eyes had lessened in their degree of redness. It was he, he-always capable of maintaining his absurdly youthful expression, even when he was upset.

"It happened suddenly," she said coolly, "and I didn't know how to respond."

"So, drinking up a storm and emptying my cabinet of wine, beer, and vodka answered all your problems?"

She smacked her lips, but her expression hadn't changed. "A miscalculation to the extent of my mourning, I apologize."

"Those were rare, you know, some of them hand-given to me by Ivan." He didn't hold barrels when it concerned her, another punch in the gut, but she was able to handle it. He knew.

"He gave them to you because I asked him to." At his mocking look, one that irked her to no end because he stuck his lips out in a childish pout that made her want to mother him, "And he was courteous enough to do so without difficulties. Not that you would understand."

"But you've always liked Matthew, and you tolerated Emily well enough!"

She looked at him and sighed, "Yes, I do."

In the past it had been the Jones clan who seemed to pluck off the family tree like flies. Longevity was present in the family, his mother was quite alive at ninety years old, but there were cousins and other distant relatives who they were obliged to visit during their last hours, those final moments of breathing. What made it worse, for her, was that those poor unfortunate souls were the ones that he was particularly close to. Cousin George and Cousins Thomas, all names that sounded familiar, but she could never put a face to the name. And the time she got to recall their names and faces at the same time, it was when she looked down at their fluffed up corpses. Eyes sewn up, arms crossed, and surrounded by white-lacey padding, while her husband stood next to her in mournful silence.

An unnamed cousin, someone he hadn't known but his mother or father did, that was perfectly fine with her.

But someone he did know, someone he grew up with, that was a different challenge.

"How did you handle when Thomas died?" She hadn't thought to ask the question, but it came out, "You didn't cry. You didn't drink. You didn't…anything."

His face turned hard in that thoughtful way, and he shifted his body on the bed. She felt the movements of his body and awaited his response. His eyes shined into hers, and a small smile, soft sigh, exited his lips.

"I cried, but I didn't let you see."

She didn't react, but her heart pounded on the inside.

"I wanted to get rid of the pain, for a time, get drunk or eat lots of hamburgers, but I knew Thomas would be mad at me. He wasn't a drinker, and he didn't like fast food. If I went on an alcohol and junk food frenzy, then he would complain that I was the living stereotype of America. And he hated stereotypes, y'know."

"You never told me," she heard that her voice was incredibly light, "you didn't do anything, and I, I, didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?"

Something in her voice betrayed her. A small crack, a small whimper; whatever it was, it made him move closer and press his hand on her cheek.

"Because I didn't want you to worry," his lips traveled to her forehead, "I was sad, and I missed him. I still do, but I know what he wouldn't want me to do. So I don't do it. Except on his birthday, just to spite him."

"Horrible." She sighed, "That's to be expected."

And it was, he was the man she married. He did the most childish things when he wanted, and he did not care that his actions could and would aggravate a person, draw out a ridiculous response, from the person who he meant to annoy. She often questioned her sanity when he proposed. To her knowledge she was not drunk, not as drunk as she was the previous night, and she had considered the option for several days before giving him her final answer. So no, she had not lost her mind when he had proposed, and she had not gone insane when she walked down the aisle, arm clasped around her brother's, and uttered the marital vows.

"You are right," she whispered, "he would not like this."

The words lingered in the air, and she was found that it was harder to look at him now. "He would not like this," she whispered again, "I have shamed him."

Her voice grew small and somewhat panicky, but it dissolved as quickly as it surfaced. She turned back on her back, the tender material the sheets were made of grazed her naked body lightly, and she looked upwards at the ceiling.

He scooted closer, not releasing his hand around her waist, a fingers dangerously above her belly button, "He's not mad. Can't be mad, but he wouldn't be mad. Just sad. Not even ashamed. Just sad." He snuggled against and continued to do so when she gave no sign of annoyance.

"You're not ashamed?" The question came out reluctantly, almost that she believed that he would be, "I would be ashamed."

His forehead rested in the crook of his neck, and his legs were crossed over her closed legs. He breathed heavily and smiled, chuckled, at her words. The startling tingle of his lips pressing down on that sensitive area of her neck rose a longing that she had thought she had long ago mastered.

"Nope," he said with cheerful finality, "Unashamed. A little worried; you can get seriously crazy when you're drunk."

She huffed at him, "I'm not that bad."

"You threw a bottle of white Russia vodka at me." He pointed out flatly, "And it smashed into the wall. I had to clean that up, mind you, and I cut my foot."

"I'll kiss it for you." She said non-committedly and winced when the pain of her hangover returned, reminding her that the event surely did happen that earlier morning.

"Nah, I like this much better," he squeezed her tighter, "how's the head?"

"God awful, is there any pain medicine in the kitchen?" With little effort he released his hands from her body, she whimpered a little at the lack of warmth and comfort, but he looked down at her with shining eyes and smarty grin. Quizzically, a bit annoyed, she returned his look with a harder stare, and she asked him why he smiled the way he did.

"You did lots of other things when you were drunk too Natalia," he winked at her from above, "lots of naughty things." He reached out to tickle her; she saw as his fingers bent in that menacing but overly childish way. He chuckled deviously, and his glasses glinted as the sunlight hammered down on them.

"Like hell you will!" In one flash scene she raised her leg and kicked him as hard as her not drunken state would allow. He laughed but screamed at the assault, and he landed on the floor with a loud thud. His laughter was contagious, some of it, and she laughed a little too. Then, her head screamed out, and she clutched her head in pain.

"Fine, I'll get it! I'll get it." He scrambled up and raised his hands in a sign of defeat, "Stay in bed. Just. Like. You. Are."

With ease and light-heartedness, he exited the room and scampered downstairs to the kitchen where the medicine was found. She remained in bed, staring out, to the sun and such, and it was several seconds later when her tired eyes hovered to the clock that stood on her bed stand. She hadn't thought of it at first, hadn't occurred, but as she was more awake she was able to read the time on it. "3:45 P.M." Her eyebrows shot up, and she took one stronger look outside and saw. The sun was indeed out, but it was the afternoon sun, close to night, that hung in the air.

She licked her lips anxiously. No wonder he wasn't at work. It was a good thing that she was as tired as she was. As soon as the realization came to her, she returned to the depths of her bed, and waited for the man who was preparing her a cup of water and painkillers. Deep in her bed, she snuggled, and her thoughts simmered around her deceased brother, who she loved, and she wondered what he would have wanted her to do.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time for her not to think about what her brother thought of her. After all, he had proven, time and time again, what she truly meant to him.

"That idiot," she murmured beneath the sheets, "lovely idiot."

A/N: Wanted to write a married couple one with AmeriBela. I have another idea except CanBelaAmeri. For now, I hope this will do. Was listening to "Think Twice" by Eve 6. Do not own the song-at all. To those who read, review, or anything else, it is greatly appreciated. I would love to hear your opinions on where I can improve. Thank you all.

Until next time...God Speed. Right? Heh.