This is so much worse than he imagined.

England was a stubborn git. England was a stubborn git and would not give up, no matter what the issue was. Not if he had any fight in him. Even after months of the same toil, the same nauseating, feverish feeling as it bled and shook through him night after night, leaving him sleepless and faint on his feet, England would not give up.

But there was only so much that a man could bear. Only so much a nation could.

He was walking that line dangerously tonight, and he knew it.

Even though England had spent the last few months each night having his streets and neighbourhoods around him filled with explosions and fire (admittedly it left memories of the trenches a little too close to home at times), each morning waking up to hundreds of people dead all across his land, he could grit his teeth and bear it. He found the strength to stumble out of bed, take a few deep breaths and go make himself a cup of tea to get him through the morning. He was in his Home, he was safe. He'd built and laid each and every single brick of this house and he'd be damned if it fell, and even if it did, he'd be damned if he didn't go down with it. Most nights he'd actually stand by the windows as the sirens wailed, watching as the first bombs drop into London, frowning as his heart ached. The windows had tacky blackout tape strung across them and the curtains looked like they'd smother him at any moment, but he'd sigh and eventually shut them with an increasingly shaky hand. Only with the begging of some of his advisers at Westminster did he crawl under the Morrison shelter he had and sit there and read a book, managing to stave off the pain - or at least, ignore it.

But one morning he wakes up and crawls out of the door, only to see that the houses either side of his own have been flattened. One bewildered and shocked family have survived, staring at their home and then at Arthur, wondering how in God's earth his house had not been hit.

England could only shake his head at the family, before heading inside the house for a dustpan and brush.

The moment he steps into Parliament that day he's apprehended by the same people who had waved the Morrison shelter in his face, demanding that it was too dangerous to spend the next couple of nights at his own home, at the least. The Briton tries to argue back that it would be stupid for the bombers to hit the same area two nights running, but they would hear none of it. England feels his eyebrow twitch and is about to give them a piece of his mind before Churchill appears.

"Men, what is the problem?"

"Sir, our Nation is in danger. He can't remain in the house he's in at the moment tonight."

The Prime Minister looks at them.

"If it has taken this long for you to realise that, then I severely hope you know we're in the middle of a War and not a spot of bad weather. Arthur can stay with me tonight."

"But, sir-"

"That's an order. His safety was my responsibility the moment His Majesty appointed me to look after this country."

The moment England sits down in one of the plush armchairs in Churchill's lounge, hair stands up on the back of his neck. A moment later, sirens screech through the streets.

The man bumbles in a moment later, giving a thoughtful look to the street outside. He closes the curtain.

"Here I thought it looked like rain tonight. Not quite the rain I was expecting, I suppose."

England can only give a nod, cold sweat beading on his forehead. God. "Um. Sorry, sir, but I'd really appreciate some tea right now. Calm the nerves."

Churchill looks at him, and gives him a smile. His wife comes in and puts a tray down on the table beside them. England grates a chuckle, trying to rein back the sudden panic in his voice. God.

"You know me too well, sir."

"Be a damned sight useless if I didn't. Please, rid yourself of the formalities. It's not needed tonight."

England gives a nod and turns his attention to the tea before him, already poured. A curl of steam lifts off the liquid, and the nation reaches forward to hook the handle around his fingers. As he lifts it, his hand trembles dangerously and he immediately clinks it back on the tray, albeit a little clumsily. He stares down at it.

The moment he'd stepped into the house he hadn't felt safe. It wasn't anything at all about who he was with, it was just the fact that he wasn't where he felt he belonged. Even if his Home got flattened he'd rather be with it, because that's where he felt safe and protected. Even if he spent nights near-sobbing from the pain and confusion of the fires and his people, he knew where he was. He had nights so bad he could only sleep by clinging to the unicorn that padded about the house at night, which he hadn't done since he was a child and hadn't even had any sort of roof over his head, but none of that comfort was here tonight; they'd, at least, decided to remain there for the time being.

A moment later and England blinks as he feels something rub along his legs, purring. He looks down to see a grey cat intertwining itself between his legs.

Churchill chuckles as he sits himself down in the armchair opposite England, lighting his cigar. He takes a puff.

"It looks as though Nelson's already fond of you. Trust me, he'd be up there fighting in the planes against those bombers if he were qualified. Brave cat he is."

Keeping his eyes closed, England reaches down and gently pets the cat, feeling the vibrations of the purring even through his own trembling. It soothes him, just a little.

"Hmm. Some- Some animals, are braver than men. I dare-say. I-I. I think it's because of how ignorant they are to what they're facing. That's why they can be so brave."

"Hm." The man takes a thoughtful puff of his cigar. "Though I dare contradict that with the fact that I find it much more difficult to summon up courage when you do know what you're facing." He glances over the end of the cigar. "How are you fairing up, my boy?"

England gives out a small laugh, but it teeters out before it can sound confident. He opens an eye. "Just a little warm, Winston. It's rather... rather ...hot tonight..."

"Indeed it is."

As though Churchill himself timed it, England finally leans over and lets out a whimper. He buries his head in his hand, shoulders trembling. It's haunting. It's haunting how clearly he can feel the cries of his people.

"G-Gosh, I'm sorry, I-"

He buries himself away, shoulders trembling. He can't do this. It hurts. He can't cope much longer. He can feel it, feel the will of the people threading further and further away into one single, vulnerable strand. It's been going on too long. Even during the worst nights, like in December when nearly everything had burnt to the ground except St. Paul's, when people thought they were all done for, he managed to grit his teeth and keep fighting. It's been going on too long. He's tired of this. He's tired.

He can't even pick up a bloody cup of tea without it going everywhere, damn it.

England freezes as he feels a hand on his shoulder. He has to spend a few moments before he dares look up at the other.

Churchill's stood over him, with that concerned, if observant, look about him.

"There's no need to apologise, Arthur. I know it's hard."

"You - I-I am terribly sorry - it's just rather - rather painful at t-times and-" The hand on his shoulder increases it's grip, and he stops.

"Arthur, it's alright." He looks at him, unmoving. "You are dealing with something no man or being should ever have to face, but you're still putting up a buggering good fight, if I say so myself. I know the people are terrified. That is why I've been visiting the people in their homes, so they do not give up when I know we are on the brink of success. It cannot go on much longer, Arthur, trust me. The United States will, I have no doubt, be joining us soon and Hitler's forces cannot keep this up forever. We have had many, many losses and I despise the fact that you feel it - but I assure you, Arthur, that you are not alone in this. Every single one of us; His Majesty, the general public, and I, feel every single loss as if it is our own child. But we can only do our best and you can only do yours. But I trust you will keep fighting and that you will never surrender, because I am sure that in all your time of being on this Earth you have had many an occasion to do so, yet have not. I am sure this situation is no different. We must keep fighting, Arthur, England, for the good of our people, for the Empire, the rest of the world, for generations present, past, and those that are to come, and for you, Arthur. We will never surrender."

England gazes at Churchill for a long, long time. He eventually breaks it with a shaky sigh, and moves his hand to scratch the cat's ears, now on his lap.

He tries a smile. Small and quiet, but genuine. He reaches forward and picks up the tea-cup, taking a sip of it.

"Yes, sir." Is all he says.