The Wings of an Angel

He'd been doing so well. He'd made it through the mud and blood and gore and terror that was the First World War without allowing his attention to waiver. He had gone through the aching pain of the bad economy of the depression and trying to crawl his way up from the damage that the Great War had inflicted upon his people. He had even managed to get through the first couple of years of the Second World War before his focus drifted and it was no longer at the forefront of his mind; instead, he focused on staying alive during the harsh and blindingly painful nights of the blitz, as bombs tore through his heart and ripped his already weakened body apart. By the time he realised he'd stopped repressing the formation, it was years past and far too late to stop what would happen next.

At the moment the pain was merely a constant throbbing punctuated by the occasional flare of pain across his shoulder blades. He could feel the (not really) alien nubs shifting underneath skin and muscle, fusing with what was already there. Lying prone on his side and drenched with sweat, Arthur's only thought was to minimise movement and, hopefully, the pain that would inevitably follow (although he knew that nothing could minimise the agony re-growing a pair of wings would bring). It was too late to attempt to repress the growth as he had been doing for so many centuries prior - now that the wings were reforming it was long past the point of return.

Losing the damned things in the first place was a hellish experience, and one he'd endured more times than he'd wish upon his worst of enemies (even that bastard France). The most recent removal had been a few of centuries previously, at the hands of a particularly insidious crew member whilst on his Angel. Having gotten his Captain and pretty much every member of the crew thoroughly inebriated, the young man had decided to see if the rumours about his Captain were founded on reality and, upon finding that they were, had promptly take a particularly sharp knife and severed the wings at the base and taken them as his prize. They'd never found the bastard (a problem with being at port at the time) and Arthur had awoken to his first mate desperately trying to stem the blood flow, pain seeping through his alcohol-addled mind. Although rumours had abounded for years about Captain Kirkland's not quite human state, illusory magic meant that the wings were only visible when he wasn't in full control of his mental faculties, and only a couple of extremely trusted men were aware of his exact nature (and even less nations, on that matter). Unfortunately, extreme drunkenness fell under the above category.

After years of having lost the bleeding things at the hands of humans, Arthur had decided after that incident to consciously repress the re-growth of the wings. It took a fair bit of magic and this greatly impacted his ability to use it in other areas, but it was worth it if it meant he wouldn't have to suffer through them reforming in subsequent years. There was no place for angels in this world any more anyway. He was done fighting against the tide of time.

But his focus had lapsed and what was done was done, and there he lay in his silent house on the outskirts of his capital, pain radiating through his bones as his body prepared for the new-old limbs to burst forth once again. Alone and in agony, but he preferred it this way. Really, he didn't need or want anyone here to see him in this state, especially not that idiot American.

Honestly.

~SR~

Something had been niggling at Alfred for a while now. He sniffed the burger in his hand and it smelt fine. Tony was in the room he had designated as his own some years before and hadn't been up to any funny experiments so that couldn't be the reason. Everything was in perfect order (besides the fact it looked like a rabid racoon had torn through his house, but that was normal for America) and the last meeting had gone exactly the same way as every meeting always did, right down to his lover's snarky comments, France's predictable perversions and the inevitable fall out that had followed. So why did he feel like something was wrong?

After a few more minutes of intense pondering, he figured that it was probably because of the last meeting. Arthur had seemed especially snippy and uptight, even to him, his boyfriend and lover! It was understandable that he'd lose his temper at Francis and even that he'd insult his awesome ideas, but it wasn't often that he insulted Alfred and seemed like he meant it. And yes, he knew their relationship was still very tentative and in the early stages, Alfred having only managed to confess a couple of decades earlier during the whole Cold War mess and Arthur being as incapable of showing affection now as he'd been ever since the whole independence lark, but still!

Now that he had placed the origin of the feeling curling in his chest, Alfred frowned. He knew Kiku called Arthur 'tsundere' and a certain level of tsundere-ness was a part of his personality, but his behaviour and actions in the last meeting had stood out. Could it be that something was wrong? And if it was, why hadn't he told Alfred? A worried little thought started worming through his mind, and that thought went thusly: the last time Arthur had really, really lost it at Alfred had been during the second world war, just before their relationship had become official. It had been a combination of factors, including anger at his late joining and the horrific things the allied forces had found as they carved through Europe, but an overriding factor had been the massive amounts of pain that the blitz had inflicted upon his war-torn body.

Alfred growled under his breath. Goddammit, Arthur! The stupid Englishman was so insistent he could cope with things alone that he consciously pushed away and resisted help, even if it was his own lover! Getting out his Smartphone, Alfred booked tickets for the next flight to London and grabbed and carry-on he kept prepared by the door. Without even pausing to tell Tony he was going, the door slammed shut and he was gone.

~SR~

As soon as the plane landed in England Alfred grabbed and taxi, hopped into it and, forgetting that everything was the wrong way around in England, got a very irate cab driver for his troubles. Once he'd rectified this and was sitting on the right side of the car, he hurried out Arthur's address and fidgeted restlessly until it pulled up at the end of the drive of Arthur's country house. Not even waiting to give him correct change (and thusly giving the driver a very generous tip without even realising it - hey, English money was weird compared to American dollars!) he jumped onto the gravel drive and pounded up to the front door, bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. For appearance's sake he knocked loudly on the door, but he didn't bother to wait for it to be answered because he knew instinctively that it wouldn't be. Fortunately, whilst Arthur had point blank refused to give Alfred his own key (he was insistent that the 'idiot' would just lose it, even if he said he wouldn't) he kept one stashed on top of the wooden frame of the door. Fairly obvious still, but an improvement upon the plastic gnome in which it's had previously been hidden.

The house was still. A hallway light was on, which Alfred took as a bad sign seeing as it was the middle of the day and Arthur was very finicky about wasting electricity. Everything else was silent. His shoes and jacket were by the door though, so he was definitely home. What if he was gravely ill and nobody had picked up on it until it was too late?

Tossing his luggage aside he hopped up the stairs, taking two at a time and not pausing for breath when he reached the top. He knew off by heart where the master bedroom was (after all, he'd spent a fair but of time in there in recent years) and didn't even bother to knock before barging in head first. The sight before him shocked and stilled him. Arthur was lying prone on his side in his bed, wrapped in loose sheets as his duvet had fallen to the one side of the bed and was now half on the floor. The entire bed was a mess and rumpled as all hell, but it was Arthur himself that unsettled him the most.

He was pale; even more so than usual. Distressingly strong tremors shook his body, punctuated by bouts of terrifying stillness. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut against the light piercing through a gap in the closed curtains. It was clear from looking at him that he'd been there for a while, as he was distinctly weak and ruffled in appearance. Alfred took all this in in a split second before rushing over to the older nation's side.

"Oh God, oh God... Artie? Artie?!" He shook him as gently as he could whilst still trying to rouse him. It took a lot less time than he'd anticipated for him to be greeted by the irritable but conscious face of his lover. "What's the matter? Damnit, we need to go to the hospital..."

"No, we most certainly don't". It sounded more like an extended sigh than actual speech, but Alfred paused and listened.

"Really? You look like you're dying, Art. And I can't really cope with that happening and I mean, I know you're old but you're not that old and ya can't wanna di-" His frantic rambling was cut off by a smaller hand being placed on his and a soothing voice.

"I'm not dying."

"Ya sure about that?" Absinthe eyes scoured the youthful and thoroughly worried face, before Arthur exhaled deeply.

"My wings are re-growing, you idiot."

"Your... what?! Wings?" There was a faint rustle as Arthur shifted his weight and a heavy scowl graced his flushed and sweaty face.

"Yes, wings. Are you deaf or just stupid?" Alfred found it hard to take offence at the snappy response because right at that moment a powerful spasm rocked through the smaller man's body. Fortunately, it was only one and it didn't take long for him to settle back down again, opting to stare up at the younger nation's face peevishly.

"Hey! Don't be mean to your lover," Alfred pouted. Arthur sighed, but then tensed as another bout of pain rippled through his body. Alfred moved closed and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. In doing so, a foreign lump became apparent, shifting fluidly beneath the skin. Alfred's hand ghosted over it in bewilderment and mild awe. As the pain passed, Arthur released a deep breath and continued.

"France calls me 'Angleterre' for a reason. It means 'Land of the Angels'. Stupid bastard saw them once and never forgot."

"I'm kinda hurt that you never bothered to tell me about them before now."

"Ah!" Another shock of pain." I lost them a few centuries ago. Can't bring myself to explain right now 'cause I'm in bleeding agony, but I stopped the bloody things from re-growing because I knew how much it'd hurt and I'd just end up losing them one way or another as it was. Never figured they'd grow back again, so why would I tell you?" The unspoken words 'and I was scared of what you'd think' were ignored. Alfred knew he could deal with Arthur's well established insecurities once all this was over and done with.

"That's what those scars are? The ones under your shoulders?" Arthur moaned.

"Yes..." This amount of conversation had apparently exhausted the older nation, because he fell silent under Alfred's gaze. He reached over to his lover and began to gently thread his fingers through his sweaty hair. This seemed to have a calming effect, as his eyes closed and body relaxed, at least until the next spasm hit.

"I'm gonna help you Artie, okay?" He leapt up from the bed, suddenly all action. He was a hero, after all, and a proper hero would never just stand by as a damsel was in distress, and his Artie was certainly in distress right now. "What do I need to do? Tell me!"

"There's nothing you really can do," he murmured in reply. "It's going to happen one way or another and it's going to hurt either way. Just.. don't go.. please?" He sounded so plaintive and searching that it broke Alfred's heart.

"I ain't going anywhere, Art. You can count on it."

With nothing else to do, he settled down on the side of the bed and simply waited, heart clenching in sympathy as his lover's pain increased before his eyes.

~SR~

As the days passed Arthur's condition simply deteriorated. Alfred had initially tried to get him to eat and drink at regular intervals, but if he wasn't outright refusing to do so, he was too weak to even take what was being offered. The most he could manage was a glass of water whenever the pain wasn't too strong. Unwilling to leave his lover's side, Alfred had dragged one of the comfier chairs from the sitting room upstairs and taken up residence in it. When he asked how long this whole thing was going to take, he simply got a non-committal answer of 'probably days', which wasn't really much help.

Arthur didn't have all that much food, having felt too weak in the prior weeks to be out and about except for the important, nation-related engagements, so four days after his arrival Alfred had no choice other than to go out to a local supermarket and stock up on the basics. Trying to do this as quickly as possible (he'd promised he'd be there for Artie, damnit) he forwent all of his favourite foods and grabbed all the necessary staples before rushing back to the country house. Bounding up the stairs after having dumped a pile of bags on the kitchen table, his energy a lot less substantial than usual as a result of the drain the past few days had inflicted, he burst (as quietly as he could manage) into the master bedroom.

Apparently he had the worst timing ever, because after days of pain and suffering a restless not-quite-sleep, the reforming wings were finally ready to unfurl. Of course, this meant that the worse part was just beginning. Arthur was flailing weakly but frantically on the bed, twisting his back in vain but fruitless attempts to alleviate the building pressure, and Alfred could do little morethan stand by him, holding his head and whispering comforting platitudes in an attempt to calm him.

He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the new limbs ripped through sinew and layers of flesh and skin, birthing out of his back like some obscene creature from one of Kiku's niche horror movies. The sight tore at his heart and made him sick to his stomach. On the once white sheets of the bed - now smeared with sweat and blood and crumpled by his violent and repeated spasms - Arthur's frail body lay shaking disturbingly, unintelligible whimpers replacing his usual acerbic commentary that Alfred pretended to loathe but currently wished for nothing more... because even if he was verbally ripping into the younger nation, at least it meant he was alright. At least it meant he wasn't hurting like this.

So absorbed in his thoughts, it took several seconds longer than he would have liked for Alfred to realise that, despite the days and days of build up, nothing new had happened and it seemed to have finished. It felt like it was over before it had even started, but this wasn't a bad thing. Arthur's whimpers had died down, although the trembling hadn't.

The new appendages were resting limply, the torn skin around them dripping blood lethargically down pale porcelain skin, leaving the open wound painfully exposed to the air. A particularly loud moan and violent shudder finally kicked Alfred into action. Forcing his knees to bend and feet to move and brain to unfreeze and fingers to untangle from the sweat-drenched blonde locks, he rushed into the ensuite bathroom, grabbing anything he deemed necessary. Having hastily acquired some towels from the linen cupboard (well stocked, as was typical of Arthur), be hurried back into the bedroom and knelt on the bed, careful as to not let it dip too much and cause further pain to the incumbent nation. He began dabbing at the mess that was his lover's back, trying not to gag at the exposed muscles and flesh. It seemed that shock of pain and blood loss had finally taken its toll, for he had fallen limp and silent. Although a little bit worried, Alfred considered it a mercy. Whilst isn't wasn't the sleep he desperately needed, at least it was a reprieve from the pain that had plagued him for the last few days.

The wings were small, not much bigger than his forearms in entirety. They were fragile, wiry little things without much substance, and it was clear that they would have to grow substantially if they were to be of any actual use. The downy feathers were soaked crimson, something Alfred didn't even attempt to rectify. His immediate priority was to clean the area they had emerged from, stem the bleeding and ensure he didn't get an infection from the wound. Towels soaked up the worst of the blood, and a cloth and a bowl with anti-septic cleaned up the rest. Dressing and bandaging the area around the wings was difficult and fiddly, but necessary. In his distress Arthur had also inflicted damage elsewhere, flailing hands having scored gashes down the side of his face. Some fifteen minutes later Alfred had completed this task and turned his attention elsewhere.

He now focused on the bed itself: leaving Arthur in it was just asking for infection and complications. Delicately, as though moving a precious artefact or sleeping child, Alfred cradled the older (and worryingly light) nation in his arms and placed him on a duvet he'd liberated from a guestroom on the loveseat used for reading at the end of the room by the window. He stripped the bloody sheets and tossed them in a discreet corner, scrunching his nose upon feeling the unpleasantly slick texture. Replacing everything with stuff he'd found in the cupboard or other rooms in preparation, and occasionally glancing at Arthur to ensure his continued restive state, Alfred completed the job and moved Arthur back to the bed, satisfied.

Having finally done everything he was able to do, he paused and took what felt like his first breath since the whole ordeal had begun. Staring at the unconscious form, he sighed deeply. Grasping the chair he'd taken up residence in what felt like years ago, he once again pulled it up to the side of the bed, and settled down for a long wait.

~SR~

After several hours of nothing more than the smallest of stirrings and faint mutterings that faded back into silence, Alfred decided that a bath was probably in order. Although he'd cleaned up the wound site, Arthur had technically been bed-bound for several days and it certainly wasn't a very hygienic state to be left in. It had absolutely nothing to do with the restless, fidgeting state he'd found himself in since the wings had unfurled. Absolutely nothing at all. Honest.

Having made up his mind, Alfred hopped to his feet with slightly less enthusiasm than usual, which he put down to the weariness that the past few days had brought upon him. He knew he needed sleep as well, but the idea of leaving Arthur to wake up alone was inconceivable and he doubted he could manage it even if he tried. Setting the bath to run first, he set up the room to ensure that the ambient temperature was high enough (for some reason, despite having central heating Arthur's house was always so cold, something Alfred rectified each visit by putting all the radiators on full blast as soon as he entered a room) and made sure a pile of towels were at hand. At least he always had plenty of them, Alfred mused. Must be to combat how freaking freezing it was to step out of a warm bath each time. Everything ready, he trotted back into Arthur's bed, pulling the door to slightly to contain the heat.

As he lifted him up gently, Alfred absently wondered if the whole bird-wing thing had other effects on Arthur's body. Francis and him had spent years trying to get Arthur to put on some weight (and his skinniness had been even more glaring in the years since the wars) but he was still exceptionally light. Didn't birds have lighter bones, or something like that? He made a mental note to look it up when he had a moment going spare. Driving away the distracting thoughts, he shook his head and went back to focusing on the task at hand. Careful as to not jostle the older nation too much, he walked across the room and pushed the bathroom door open with his foot.

The bath was half full. He'd used a small amount of bath salts in it, with the vague notion that it would in some way help the open wounds on Arthur's back. Carefully placing Arthur down on an old sofa that had been relocated into the room years before (despite his fixation on appearing like a gentleman, Arthur was a creature of comfort and enjoyed having somewhere soft to sit before and after baths), he dipped his elbow in to test that it wasn't too warm. Satisfied that it was just about right, he unwrapped Arthur from his blanket, gently removed the dressing and bandages from a few hours previous and shimmied off his pyjama trousers before lifting him once again and slipping him into the tub.

The water seemed to rouse him slightly, eyelids flickered as he stirred. "Wha...?"

Alfred held him steady in the crook of his one arm as he began to wash him down with a sponge. "You 'kay, Artie?" he murmured, consciously lowering his voice. "You had me worried for a little while". The older nation didn't respond, but didn't fall back to sleep either. Flickering eyes took their time taking in his surroundings. Once he'd appeared to orient himself, he emitted a load groan and wriggled in Alfred's grasp. "Ah, ah... don't move, kay? Your back's a right mess."

"I know. I can feel it." Alfred chuckled at the weary but irritable tone.

"I can kinda see why you didn't want to have to do all that again," he struck up casually and he moved onto shampooing Arthur's hair. "Just watching it was painful. How many times has that happened, exactly?"

"Eh... I lost track in the mid 1500s. More times than I could count on one hand, that's for certain." Arthur's voice was sleepy, but he seemed relaxed and in minimal pain considering the circumstances, which was nothing short of a blessing. Alfred simply hummed in response and continued with what he was doing. The peace and silence was a pleasant relief.

~SR~

A couple of days later found Arthur still bed bound, but considerably more aware and rapidly making his way back to his usual, snarky self. Alfred had taken to cooking food and dragging it up to the bedroom, along with painkillers if he felt they were necessary. Arthur was seemingly indifferent with the re-appearance of his wings, but Alfred found them positively enthralling and took every opportunity to manhandle them whenever had to change the dressings on his back. Despite Arthur's grumblings, he never actively stopped Alfred from doing this and, if the look on his face was anything to go by, Alfred figured that he actually enjoyed having them petted.

"I take it they're gonna get bigger, right? I mean, they way too small to fly with." He prodded one of the downy wings and absently tugged at the feathers. Arthur flinched slightly in response, but didn't say anything about his actions.

"What? Of course they'll grow. Could you imagine have full sized wings burst out of my back? It would kill me." He played the scene in his head and nodded in agreement.

"Heh, I guess so. So all this happened 'cause you stopped magically repressing them during the war? Why did it take so long? It's been forever since the war. S'kinda weird that it took so long." Arthur pursed his lips before responding.

"Not really. The longest time was about 80... 85 years? It tends to depend on what sort of state I'm in, really. The war and everything since pretty much knackered me. It's only in the last few years I've started to build back up properly." He shrugged, and shook them experimentally. Despite not having had them for several centuries, he was getting re-accustomed to them quickly. He'd explained to Alfred before that, because technically the wings were part of his natural state, he could have gone millennia without them and he would still be used to them in a matter of weeks. Alfred had laughed loud enough to shake the floor when he'd added in quiet mutters that losing them was the reason for his notoriously poor co-ordination, before slapping him on the back only to apologise profusely when that left him doubled over and winded.

The wounds themselves were healing nicely, although it was clear from the offset that there would be some fairly impressive scarring around the wing bases. Arthur had just shrugged and said that it was how it'd always been and that it would fade with time, but Alfred didn't mind. Heck, scars had never bothered him before; they both had their fair share of them scattered over their bodies. He was just happy that the ordeal was over and Arthur was well. Even though he loved taking care of his lover and it made him feel exceptionally heroic to tend to him, it was nice to see him sitting up by himself and even smiling occasionally at his antics, even if he'd try to hide the fond expressions from the younger man.

And so here they were, sitting on the master bed, illuminated by the mid-morning sun and leaning against each other. Arthur was bathing in the sunlight, eyes closed and a small smile gracing his lips, as Alfred held him in his lap tenderly.

"I can't wait to watch you fly." Alfred murmured into his ear, breath tickling his neck. Arthur hummed contently.

"And I can't wait to show you."

AN: Yay, another story! I was so bored today and I had this little idea whirling around so I decided to write it up. My longest yet! I love Angel!Arthur. Couple of things:

1) Alfred is wrong. Everything is the right way around in England, and the wrong way around in his house.
2) I live in a big old farmhouse without central heating, so it's freezing here. After a few years of living that way you stop noticing it - apparently Arthur has, too. When I moved to uni accommodation with central heating it was unbearably hot all the time. Although getting out of lovely warms baths into a cold room is probably one of the most unpleasant experiences known to man ;)
3) I know the actual, historical origin of 'Angleterre', but this was just too good to pass up on :D I can twist things a little to suit my imaginary world.

Besides that, please please review if you liked it! For someone who struggles with depression and motivation, nothing is nicer than people telling me that they've enjoyed reading this. It just makes my day.