It's been four days since Alfred and I came to his home in the New York countryside. It's a small house, quaint and comfortable. I didn't mind the house or the location. Except right now. Hurricane Sandy is scheduled to hit the Eastern coastline any day now, and instead of staying in one of Alfred's ten other houses we had to stay here, in New York, right in the thick of it.
I can't say I don't understand. After all, he just wants to be near his people. I'm worried god damn it. What with a shitty job market and growing debt (16 fucking trillion) his immune system is not exactly what you would call up to par.
If the constant coughing and migraines aren't enough its election season too. And what better to provide a mind-splitting headache than all of the most important dignitaries of you country having god damn stupid fucking screaming matches *cough* I mean debates *cough* on every news channel.
Not to mention his sleep schedule. Which he doesn't have. The boy literally gets no sleep trying to solve this countries problem and that countries crisis and oh England it's not their fault they had an earthquake I absolutely need to give them some money I don't have and they won't be grateful for. What a load of shit. He's such a sap, oh and if you ask him to get some sleep- nicely I might add which is hard for me- he will respond with some preposterous declaration of being a "hero" who people depend on.
Why did I have to marry somebody so idiotically sincere? Anyway, I digress. He seems fine right now, the earthquake hasn't struck and his only complaint is being cold, but he's always cold. So far so good. Maybe the entire storm will just give up and go home, perhaps decide that it really isn't worth it to fuck up the most densely populated region in America. I shoot the darkening night sky one last warning glare before climbing the stairs to join Alfred in the bedroom.
"What were you doing down there Iggy?" Alfred says with a raised eyebrow from the bed.
"Arthur" I correct as I crawl beneath the covers with him.
My only response is a hum as we curl close. I relish in how I managed to get Alfred to go to bed at a reasonable time with nothing more than a kiss and an only slightly emasculating plea before I notice his shivering. And he hasn't even complained yet. Weird. I remove my head from his trembling hest and look up. He raises an eyebrow at my usual glare.
"It's not that cold."
"Yes it is! It's freezing!" He whines squeezing my slender frame closer to his for emphasis.
I roll my eyes as I try to wiggle from his arms before being crushed; "It is bloody not! Now let go before you break me!"
He pouts and loosens his grasp. I wiggle so that my face is level with his and feel his forehead. I'm no doctor, but if he's going to get sick because of this cursed hurricane a fever would be a sensible place to start. I frown and pull my hand back, he does seem to have a fever. He just rolls his eyes.
"I'm not sick Artie, it's always cold in New York in October."
"Arthur. And yes that may be true but there aren't always hurricanes in New York in October."
He pulls his face into my chest and mumbles something along the line of 'yea that would suck'. I sigh and stroke his hair, deciding that if the hot head against my chest got any more so I would have to shove some medicine down his throat, but for now sleep was the best thing for him.
I awake to the sound of awful retching creeping into the sanctity of the bedroom. I leap out from under the covers and run into the bathroom just down the hall, hesitating at the slightly ajar door with light seeping out when the retching pauses.
"Alfred?" I ask timidly, met with only a chocking cough before he begins to vomit again.
I push open the door and kneel next to the superpower as he heaves violently into the toilet. A sputter, a sob, and more vomit. I rub circles into his back and whisper what I hope are soothing words until he stops puking and practically falls into my lab, curling up with his head tucked under my chin.
I wipe his mouth and flush the toilet, still rubbing his back as he pants into my chest. His forehead has definitely gotten hotter.
"Alfred are you alright?" nothing. "Al?" he shakes his head and wraps his arms around my waist, holding me in a trembling embrace. I kiss the top of his head and continue to rub small circles on his back with my other hand rubbing up and down his side in a comforting gesture he has often used on me the many times that I get sick. When his breathing slows and his grip weakens I slip my slender fingers under his chin and tilt his head up so that I can look into his eyes. Alfred may lie compulsively about his well being, but I always know what he's feeling if I can look him in the eye. He feels like shit.
I gently unwrap his arms from my frame and sit him up, holding his steady as he wavers and holds his probably aching head.
"Let's get you into bed, okay love?" He nods wile I pull him onto his feet. I wish I could carry him like he carries me but I am not exactly known for my brute strength, and with a population of 300 million fit body and envious abs aside Alfred is not a light man. Just don't tell him that.
He puts and arm around my shoulders and leans his weight against me. I wrap my arm around his waist and we steadily make our way to the bedroom. He clutches his stomach with his free hand the entire way, the constant panting heard from his hanging head causing my gut to clench in worry.
After gently laying him down I feel his forehead. It's not as bad as I thought, but definitely hotter than before.
"m' cold" He whimpers, eyes closed tightly as he holds his stomach trying to endure the acrobatic flip-flops.
I shush him and pull the covers up to his chin. "You're always cold Al."
"Sorry" he whispers, almost too quietly to hear as he slowly opens his eyes. I can see him begin to relax as his stomach settles
I gently brush his hair out of his face; "Well it's not your fault."
After crawling in on his opposite side I pull the sick nations head onto my lap, gently running my fingers through his golden locks. I glance out at the light still spilling into the hall while he turns on his side, too exhausted to react much. I should really get him some water so he doesn't get dehydrated, but I don't think that he wants me to leave. you don't want to leave either I think as I look at his strained features, his eyes squeezed tightly closed as if that will help him sleep. I continue to stroke his hair and even start to hum softly, but honestly I don't know what to do.
I'm the one who always gets sick. I have a weak immune system, not that I would ever admit that out loud, and all it takes is too much stress, or a sleepless night, or few stocks to crash. Alfred, on the other hand, was hardly fazed. As I mentioned before, he often (too often) goes weeks without sleep, only to bounce back after a solid 24 hours. Even when he was little America rarely got sick, or so I heard, I wasn't really there much.
He always seems to know what to do to take care of me, singing God Save the Queen or reading me stories. It's become a ritual that whenever I am bedridden Alfred will carry me downstairs, lest the room suffocate me after being trapped in it for so long, and we will watch a marathon of Harry Potter or Dr. Who or whatever else I ask for. Not that I get sick that often.
I look down and see the peaceful, innocent expression of sleep on my husband's face. After putting a pillow from my side of the bed between my head and the backboard I drift off to sleep myself.