A/N: So this is kinda late, but I still wanted to submit it. In a way, it's me trying to cope with the memories of 9/11. So it's part processing, part tribute. I want to be able to give something, to say something, but I don't want to sound fake or trite. So, I guess I'll stop babbling now. Please enjoy this one-shot.

Disclaimer: Not mine

It was a Tuesday. And he would always remember.

But that had been 10 years ago. Ten years since his world had been shattered. Ten years since the planes came out of the sky to attack his symbols of commerce and strength. Ten years since he had felt vulnerable and angry and confused. It was ten years, but it felt like yesterday.

This time it was a Sunday, when the entire nation would again turn to New York, Washington D.C., and a field in Pennsylvania, and this time to remember and to mourn as it did when the wounds were still fresh.

The United States of America, found himself in New York City, just like he did on the fateful day 10 years ago. He tried to visit each of his states to get a feel on how his nation was doing, but, if he had to be honest with himself, New York was his favorite. Washington D.C. might be the brains behind the operation, but New York was the heart as it throbbed with the pulse of millions of people from all over the world who met and merged, working together to help build who he was. Even though one of America's past bosses insisted that he would always be an agricultural nation, there was something about the cities, and particularly this city, that really defined America's character.

He had been in New York that day to just wander the streets, enjoying the crisp blue sky that peeked around the buildings that stretched toward the heavens, weather just deciding on whether or not it would begin the change to fall or hold onto summer for a few more minutes. The city had already been bustling. America smiled faintly, of course it had already been bustling, it never stopped. People were concerned about the sports stats from the night before, or getting to a last minute meeting, or running to grab a cup of coffee to get a jumpstart for the morning.

Then it happened. A crash echoed through the air of New York sounding like perhaps a construction crew had gotten a little too rowdy with their job, but America knew different. His heart, his heart, rocked and swayed and he knew something was wrong. Knocking his glasses askew, he began to run. The hard throbbing in his chest made it difficult to follow a straight line to where he was going, but that didn't stop him from trying.

He could hear faint screams as people began to understand that something was going on, murmurs of "how awful", TV screens flashing images of his World Trade Center, North Tower, smoking into the clear blue sky.

Nobody knew quite what it was, though. A bomb? An accident of some kind? But the news was saying it was a plane? But how could it be? One of his planes?

America clutched at his chest, panting heavily, a couple people stared at him oddly but let it slide. It was New York and not much made them pause.

Until the second plane hit. People really screamed then. This was not an accident. This was intentional. They were attacking him. He had to get to those Towers.

America ran through the streets, dodging around stalled traffic as people stared up at the sky, now watching the two smoking buildings with dumbstruck awe, mouths hanging open in shock. America could sense the rest of the nation, the rest of the world, turning their attention to this spot, this time, this place, watching as his buildings smoked into the now hauntingly clear sky.

Finally he reached the site and his hearing seemed to come back into focus as wails of the city's police and firefighters fill the air. Some had already reached the Towers, scrambling into the buildings as office workers tried their best to get out. Now that he was there, America didn't know what to do. He panted as he stared up at the sky above him, noticing falling debris and, with a detached horror, falling people, as they jump from his North Tower to hit the ground hundreds of feet below.

Then he felt it again, this time in a jab above his eyes, and his heart seemed to give an echoing jolt. Washington D.C. He was being attacked there, too. He wanted to scream and cry, to yell and curse. He wanted to something, but all he could do was tremble and stare, seeing but not really seeing.

"Sir," said a voice, breaking through America's pained stupor. It was firefighter, one of his men working for the New York City fire department. Looking at the man, American instantly knew his story. He was a father of two young children, twins, and he was recently married to his high school sweet heart. She worked as a paramedic and constantly worried about him fighting fires. He never told her, but he worried the same thing about her. "We recommend that you clear out of here, the buildings are unstable." The visor on his helmet was already covered in dust and his jacket bore marks of what he had already seen. The man seemed to take a second look at America and then said, "You need help? There's paramedics already taking people."

America shook his head, unable to speak. He wanted to say he was fine, but that words just wouldn't come, because he knew he wasn't fine.

The firefighter seemed to understand what America wanted to say though; doubtlessly he had seen the response hundreds of times before on that day. As it was, he simply nodded in return and then turned on his heel, walking back toward the Towers.

"Wait, where are you going?" America managed, words jolted out of him despite himself.

"There's people still up there," said the man, shooting a confident smile over his shoulder before he continued walking.

America swallowed, pains still throbbing in his chest and head dully, but a strange emotion was bubbling in his gut as he watched the firefighter walk away. It reminded him of some of the times he had joined his soldiers in the field, it was pride, but also a sense of tragedy. The thing was, the battle field had never been here, not in over 100 years. Stumbling away, following the advice of the firefighter that he suspected he would never see again, America moved slowly away from the Towers, head down, feeling the throbbing in his head and heart.

Suddenly, his heart stabbed in his chest, as if someone was taking a knife and twisting it. He stopped in his tracks as the sky above him seemed to shake. Turning around slowly, he saw smoke billowing off of the South Tower, completely hiding the building. Another explosion? Another plane hitting the tower?

But no, the smoke was billowing higher now, going up into the sky like a cloud instead of a thin distress symbol. America waited with bated breath, a terrible feeling in a stomach that he knew what he would see when the smoke finally dispersed, as his heart continued to stab itself in his chest.

Finally, the smoke blew away in the still September morning and the Tower was gone. Screams filled the air as his people began to see the now empty sky, more horrible than America could even imagine. Lives of his people suddenly and dramatically cut short; America felt the loss as if part of him had died as well. And America just stood and stared, tears that wouldn't fall making his eyes feel heavy.

Echoing in the back of his mind as he stood staring at the empty patch of sky, a defiant yell sounded in his ear, followed soon by a pain in his shoulder. Another attack? But how? And this one…felt different somehow. Why was this happening?

Sirens continued echoing around the city as people ran, terror mingled with horror and fear on their faces and America fought to not be swept away by the emotions. The pain continued all over his body, growing more acute as his nation began to understand what was happening and cry out against it, but he had to keep his head, if he lost himself, he would truly never recover.

Before he could even come to grips with the first disaster, it happened again. The North Tower trembled and collapsed, cascading to the earth as the air was again filled with screams. The cloud of dust, like some giant evil wave rushing down the streets.

People began running and America joined them, moving on autopilot as his hands trembled. He tried to think coherently, to plan something, even his next movement, but his mind was completely stunned.

But that was 10 years ago and so much had happened since then. First he had been furious, striking out in anger at the people who dared attack him. Trying to bring down the ones who had planned this against his people, against him. Even those who were not directly responsible came under his harsh gaze, falling to the wayside as he swept them away with his anger and his force. But he had been hasty, entering a war that could not be won, fighting a group that could not be fully destroyed, rocking the world with his vengeance.

And really, he had acted out of fear, trying to force his will upon the world. Fear is foolish, he had learned, and it only leads to more violence and hatred.

But he had grown up since that horrible day, ten years is both a long time and a short time for a nation, and now America was walking the streets of New York again on September 11th, navigating the streets as he moved to where his Towers once stood. People moved much the same this morning, some going to work, some going to get coffee, but the air held a somber stillness as much of the crowd was dressed in black and moved toward the site as well.

America could have ridden in a nice limo with his boss, or even his former boss, but he wanted this time to walk his streets again. And to remember.

Now, ten years later, he was tired and numb again. This time the numbness wasn't triggered by fear, it was triggered by simple weariness. Why was he still doing this? What was his purpose now?

People were saying he was no longer a super power, that his government was a failure and his economy wasn't that far behind. What did that make him then? What would he be now?

He shook his head, trying to clear away these miserable thoughts as different locations around the city triggered memories of that horrible day.

America finally reached the site again. It was now surrounded by a fence. Stony faced security guards scanned people, checking faces, names, and packages, making sure someone wasn't trying for repeat performance. America scowled at this thought as he was waved through, hands in the pockets of his black suit, walking over to join his boss and his former boss as they got a tour of the new memorial.

They were just seeing the monument for the North Tower. The water rushing into the hole created a somewhat soothing sound that did nothing to disguise the fact that it surrounded a gaping hole where his Tower used to be. The names around the outside, each a poignant reminder of everyone who had died in those towers, were etched in dark stone. His boss nodded once to him as America approached, looking much older than when he entered office nearing four years ago. His former boss just smiled grimly at him, clutching his wife's hand as both pairs of President's and First Lady's looked into the memorial.

America could tell they were trying not to cry, hoping that they would be able to remain strong before their country, both America himself and the people that were watching. America, however, could not keep the tears off his face, as they leaked out of the corners of his eyes and trickled down his face, an unnatural gasp emerging from his lips as he read the names.

When America paused to think about all the lives that had been lost in his history, he felt the hopelessness of it all sometimes immobilize him. So, that's why he didn't often think of those things. Sometimes it was better to try and just be the hero and not worry about anything. If he did stop to think too much, he wouldn't get up at all. He tried to stay strong for them, in the only way he knew how.

A watery smile graced his lips as both First Ladies shot America a concerned look and the President's traded a look of their own. They understood, they knew what was going on.

Hours later (minutes later?), America was listening to his former boss read the words of the letter another one of his former bosses had written to a mother who had lost all of her sons in the Civil War. The letter echoed hauntingly in America's mind, the voices of his two former bosses mingling in his mind as he listened to the words. Then, in the haze of sorrow, America's current boss began to read, words discussing how "God was our refuge and strength".

America had heard his people talk about God, especially after the attacks, but he never quite understood what God was supposed to be. He sometimes caught snippets of the lofty theology and heard the songs echoed from the churches and other places of worship across his land, but he never really understood what it all meant. At any rate, God was not someone for him, whatever he was. God was for humans, and no matter how much he felt the pain of humanity, America was certainly not human.

America emerged slowly from this musing to notice that his boss had finished reading and that now the names of the victims were being read. "…Ignatius Udo Adanga, Christy A. Addamo, Terence E. Adderley, Jr., Sophia Buruwad Addo, Lee Allan Adler, Daniel Thomas Afflitto, Emmanuel Akwasi Afuakwah, Alok Agarwal, Mukul Kumar Agarwala, Joseph Agnello, David Scott Agnes, Brian G. Ahearn, Jeremiah Joseph Ahern, Joanne Marie Ahladiotis, Shabbir Ahmed…" The voice of the reader hitched every so often as quiet sobs rippled across the crowd as loved ones recognized names. And the names continued.

America picked out each one of his people, remembering their stories and faces as they had been in life. That one was a computer programmer who loved to play video games in his down time. That one was an intern fresh out of college, ambitious, hoping to begin the climb of the corporate ladder. That one was only in the Tower for a fifteen minute meeting. That one jumped off the top hand in hand with the woman he had proposed to just a few weeks before.

He also noticed, as he had in the previous years, the names that didn't belong to his people and, dully scanning the crowd, he picked up on those like him, nations that had come here to mourn the loss of those of their own. He spotted Spain among the crowd, looking about as bad as he felt, eyes glassy as he remembered an attack he has sustained just a handful of years after America's. He spotted Russia, his once nemesis, now hesitant ally, standing at a distance, face as unreadable as ever, though a slight frown played on his lips. China was their too, the rising superpower, America thought bitterly. He felt America's eyes on him and nodded, giving an encouraging smile to America as one of his own people's names was read, and America could not feel bitter. France, Germany, and Italy were there, listening quietly to the names, silent tears trickling down France's and Italy's faces, Germany as rigid as ever. Japan, somewhat battered from the events that had happened to him only months before, stood off the the side, watching the crowd as a single tear tracked down his cheek.

And there was Canada, holding his polar bear like a stuffed animal and sniffling, eyes red rimmed behind his glasses. America wanted to go comfort his brother, but he didn't even know what he would say, what he could say. So he just remained where he was, feeling slightly dead inside, tears still creeping down his face as the names continued on, their stories flashing through his mind.

Even when the list of names ended, the mourning did not. Of course it didn't. People took impressions of names on their programs rubbing the letters as if hoping the stone would remember them and remember those people. America sat to the side, tears still not stopping as he watched his people.

"You've grown a lot in ten years," muttered a voice in a clipped British accent.

America looked up at England as he stood over him and let out a little grunt, not really in the mood for conversation. Sighing, England seemed to understand this, the older country sat down next to America, tucking in his knees and setting his chin on top of them.

America looked at the country out of the corner of his eyes. He noticed the British man's eyes were red as well, he had lost people too that day, and again during the attack on the Underground. And, as America continued to stare at England, he realized again just how old the country was, how much he had already seen, how what had just happened to America was just another page in Britain's ancient history.

"How do you…?" America began, voice raspy from crying for so long, unable to finish his question.

"Handle it?" England finished, like he knew what the country was going to say. He let the breath hiss out through his teeth before he said, "You don't really, but as your people grow, you start to forget. It isn't present anymore, it becomes history."

"I don't want to forget," America insisted stubbornly, sniffing a little, familiar pout splashing across his face, as the tears continued to leak out of his eyes.

"You don't have much of a choice," England said gently, restraining himself from giving an irritated retort to the young nation. He was still so naïve, so inexperienced.

America shook his head furiously, looking away from the memorials for the first time to look straight up at the sky, imaging where the Towers had once stood. "Will it happen again?" America asked despite himself.

"Not soon, hopefully, but probably," replied England honestly, wincing at what he had said.

America let out another strangled gasp as another wave of tears overwhelmed him. England awkwardly patted the nation's back, trying to comfort the younger country, but deciding that silence was best at this moment.

"I don't want this," America finally gasped out, eyes swollen angry red as he looked up at England once his sobs had calmed again.

"Well, what do you want?" asked England reasonably, trying to keep the nation calm.

"I want Peace," said America simply, staring hard at England. The way that America said it, England knew the nation wasn't just talking about a simple call to cease fighting, he was talking about the peace that never required fighting in the first place. It was the peace that England had often heard of but had never seen.

England swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to squish the longing for this impossible Peace in his gut. "We all do, America, we all do."

America nodded, looking back to the memorials notice that the other nations had gathered around the pair, quietly supporting each other as they watched the loved ones of those who died mourning the loss and heard the people of the nation silently calling out for Peace.

A/N: The events are true, of course, but the different people's stories I mentioned were not meant ot be based off of anyone. I hope this helped you to understand things in some way, I know it helped me work through some of these issues. If you want, leave a review.