Soft Hetaoni tracks, Princess of China, Safe and Sound, This is Where I Fall.

The following story is a continuation project working from my other story HetaOni: Final Loop. Like any fanfiction, this story is entirely headcanon and may not appeal to all readers due to characterization and pacing. Although it has its moments, this is not a fast story. The first eleven chapters move at a stately pace, the twelve to seventeen range has been described as emotionally difficult, there is a weak point in the early twenties before it picks up the pace again and transitions into the closing act in the early thirties.

Every time I edit this AN I either sound like a ditz or an ass so bleeeeeh, please enjoy my fic!

Recovery

A Swiss September

The first thing France did after landing in a civilian air-field in Switzerland was run across the tarmac. He didn't even bother to remove his helmet where it was crushing his blonde head, he just pulled the goggles off and let the cool wind blow across his face. He ran straight to the grey body of the Italian AMX jet that had safely come down a few minutes before him, leaving his own stressed aircraft to cough and smoke where he'd taxied it to a stop.

The human pilot up inside the other machine seemed too stunned by what had happened during their mission to so much as unbuckle himself from his seat. The Italian plane, like the French one the Air Commandant had just abandoned, was still whining and screaming softly from its fried electronics and over-clocked engines. The entire thing stank of burning rubber and spent fuel, rivets coming loose where the metal had begun to corrode like it had been in the grey sky for years, not hours.

France didn't have a care for the personnel milling about under the cloudy sky, the humans all wondering where two military jets had come from. He just hoisted himself right up the side of the plane, careful not to hurt himself as the cockpit hatch was released and the human inside fumbled awkwardly to remove the mask and goggles still hiding his face. He looked understandably shaken and upset, no doubt confused as well, but the nation didn't say anything.

He didn't even bother to get a good look at his face either, France just grabbed the other pilot by his jump suit and covered his mouth with his lips. He paid absolutely no mind to the loud grunt in protest that the other man made, and he was still strapped into his seat so he had no way of squirming out of reach either! It was a shame he wasn't wearing some kind of cologne or fragrant aftershave, France was so used to thinking of Italy's people as-

-oh.

Soldier.

Right.

"That-" France said breathlessly, his gloved fingers working their way around the pilot's throat until he found the chain he was looking for. Unfortunately, his companion also had a grip at his throat now, and it was clearly poised to launch France the half-dozen or so feet from the cockpit edge to the hard tarmac below. The Italian was not amused. "-was the most beautiful thing I have seen in years."

"What?" With a jerk of his wrist the nation liberated the soldier of his dog tags, the Italian's face a mixture of confusion and- well, really just a terrible amount of confusion.

"You will be hearing from me, mon cher!" And before he could be shoved off the plane, France quickly climbed back down the way he'd come, the pilot letting go of him as he started fighting and fumbling to get himself free of the jet's belts and wires.

"Wait!" Ohonhonhon~ no one could resist the French- "What the hell are y-? Your plane!"

"My people will be along to take care of it!" France laughed, calling the words over his shoulder as he twirled the broken chain around his fingers, making sure he kept the tags themselves safe against his palm. "Switzerland will have to answer for it if anything happens!" Even in its current condition, was it good husbandry to simply abandon his plane on a civilian air-field in the middle of Switzerland? No, no it wasn't. But France had a few more important things on his mind right now, and one of those was-

"You there! I need directions to the nearest train station! Or access to a spare plane, if you have one!"

It was over.

That was all Russia could think of as he stood there, sweaty, bleeding, and dirty:

It was over.

The rubble was still smouldering and there were Swiss forces combing across the property. They were burning down every inch of green and making sure the flames didn't climb out of control across the landscape. The September sun was setting over the Alps in the west, fingers of red light probing the smoking ground scornfully before vanishing. The air was cool and quiet, filled only with the hissing flames as they were doused, the faded sounds of voices fluttering through the smoke...

Sometimes the soldiers found clocks in the bushes and debris. There were plastic wall clocks, wooden grandmothers, old-fashioned alarms, ornate pocket-watches, digital time-pieces, and all sorts of other kinds- even dead VCRs and microwaves. Like well-trained machines the men and women wearing the Swiss badge on their arms smashed those devices to bits and burnt them along with the twisted trees and wild weeds. They were the only things in the rubble that mattered, and it wasn't the soldiers' place to question their orders. None of the nations even cared that the clocks had all stopped, or frozen, or turned off already. They just wanted them gone and Switzerland was all too happy to oblige.

Speaking of whom...

Russia turned away from the shambled remains of the house, leaving Spain to stand there alone and stare at the destruction. He moved carefully up the beaten path and avoided the debris strewn by the explosive aftermath of the air-strike, following a particular set of voices up the hill. He didn't wander all the way back to the road where personnel were gathered and coordinating the clean-up effort, but with his pipe-sword swinging next to him, the tall northerner soon found himself standing on the edge of the small cluster of Germanic nations. Germany was speaking as he got there:

"Just who was Holy Rome?"

"My big brother. At least, until I got bigger than him." Prussia's face was unnaturally dark, clearly upset over something. The East German was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Austria kneeling at his feet on the ground next to the medical cot holding Switzerland's badly wounded body. Germany was standing as well, keeping out of the way of the Swiss surgeon trying to tend to his nation's wounds.

"He was my brother too." The fact that Switzerland was still awake either meant he was coping all right with the pain of having his leg blown off, or he was just too stubborn to let the surgeon knock him out. "He died in the nineteenth century. France's emperor at the time- the first Napoleon?" The Alpine Republic was pale and obviously not doing well, his voice not coming out clearly while his green eyes stared blearily up at Germany. He didn't even seem to notice Russia's presence as the taller nation approached and looked down on him, he was too exhausted to pay attention. When Russia looked back at Germany he was surprised to see the shocked expression on the Federal Republic's face. His next question was more of a statement.

"But I was found-"

"After the war..." Austria sounded calm, as usual, but Russia couldn't help but notice how the proud aristocrat wouldn't look up at Germany as he spoke. "France was the one to find you and he sent you to Vienna when we were dividing up his lost territories. You told us your name and..." And the rest was history? Russia remembered that conference in Vienna, it had been very interesting: the first real 'world meeting' of sorts...

"And he looked-"

"A lot like you." Switzerland's voice was ragged now that he was slowly giving in to the pain medications feeding into his arm. His leg wouldn't come back until he'd rested, the bloody bandages wrapped around the stump of his right thigh would struggle to contain the damage in the meantime. Most of the blonde hair had been burnt off the side of his skull too, disfiguring his eye and cheek... yes, he looked quite terrible.

"And you say he acted-"

"A lot like you, West." Prussia lost eye-contact with his little brother, just watching Switzerland begin to drift off into a deep, dark sleep.

"And... his relationship with Italy...?"

"A lot like... well, I suppose that depends." Austria finally looked up, his violet eyes catching sight of Russia for a moment before focusing back on Germany. That was alright, Russia was just listening anyways. He wanted to hear the rest even if Austria looked uncomfortable trying to word it. "What... is your relationship with Italy?"

"I..." After everything that just happened, was that really a fair question?

"Perhaps this can wait?" Russia suggested, earning him a startled look from Germany before the blonde calmed himself and listened. The others didn't take much coaxing either. "Why don't we finish up here and go home? We can talk about dead empires some other time, after we have all eaten at our own tables and slept in our own beds. I'm sure that's all Italy wants for himself right now, so that should be good enough for us."

To be fair, there was no way of knowing what Italy could have wanted, no way to really guess or understand. They didn't even know what had motivated Romano to begin all of this in the first place: how had he found out that his brother was still alive? How had he figured out so much about the house? Russia had been the first to know that South Italy was preparing an assault on the mansion and yet even he hadn't had a chance to worm any additional information out of the elder Italian.

But at least Switzerland had known what was good for him, because the neutral power was the one that had called the rest of the world here in such a hurry. He had requested, in a voice that could never be mistaken for begging or pleading, for the Security Council to send military aid for a crisis taking place in the Alps. The official statement had been very vague; anarchists, rouge militants hiding out at an abandoned property in the wilderness, something about a kidnapping and torture and Italy's overzealous pledge to aid them...

All lies, but all necessary to keep the public satisfied. Swiss pride had been injured in all of this, but then again the craters peppering the landscape said the same of Italian and American... And Chinese, and Polish, and Lithuanian and Korean too no doubt... Who else had died? Not died for real, not stepped beyond the mortal veil into the next world, but had their bodies damaged to the point where they couldn't function anymore.

Russia was fairly certain England was still alive, admittedly a bit more tense when he thought about him and China versus the other nations. It was hard not to doubt the Englishman's ability to bounce back, and the same could be said about Canada's brother... France had probably landed by now, or at least Russia hoped he had.

Thinking back to the final moments before the second crash, Russia wasn't exactly sure what had happened between America and England. All he knew was that when Russia and Canada had reached the site of America's crash they'd found the other nation unconscious on the ground instead of burnt to cinders inside the blackened shell of his jet. He was... beyond simply lucky to have survived. He'd crashed inside the monster's area of influence, he'd been rendered human again for however short a time and the impact ought to have ended his life again just like in all of those other loops.

It still remained to be seen what would happen when he woke up; if any lasting damage had been done or if he truly was just fine despite the impact... But for now...

For now as Prussia and Austria hoisted Switzerland's cot up between them and began to trudge up the hill, Russia cleared his throat to catch Germany's attention. It felt below him to ask for attention, especially if what he was about to say was for Germany's benefit alone, but he did have something worth saying even if he wasn't going to gain from it.

"I never knew the Holy Roman Empire, not personally." He stated, watching the other nation stare uncertainly at him. Germany looked exhausted with sweat and filth smearing his face, his uniform dirty and blotched with dirt and blood. His blue eyes had a pathetic-looking emotion in them, something like frustration giving way to hopelessness, but Russia was trying not to poke at him right now, not after everything. "But when you get home, try contacting Poland or Lithuania. They used to share a border with him in the south and west, so they might remember something." And Poland would want to talk, especially if it was to one of the twelve. He would want to talk and help and enlighten and do anything, because for the first time in several years something had actually made the little imbecile mad. He'd been blasted off the field by the same explosion that had taken out China, Korea and Lithuania, meaning he'd been made useless in the campaign to rescue his Italian friend.

Russia had turned his radio off already. Being yelled at by Poland would only upset his temper right now and the larger nation had no wish to get riled up. He didn't want to be angry, or sad, or distressed, he just wanted everything to calm down now that they'd taken out some of their aggression on the Thing that had caused all of their problems. It wasn't enough, it would never feel like enough but Russia understood, for now at least, that there was no helping it. He didn't want the monster to come back so they could kill it again, he just wished he could have made it suffer a bit more before the air-strike obliterated that giant clock that had been hiding in the mansion...

But it was better not to think about that clock right now either. Russia didn't want to be reminded of all the times he'd seen it before, all the times he'd wanted to study it, not destroy it. If he had only known...

'Stop. Stop. I don't want to think like that today.' Not today, not tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. He didn't want to think like that... He didn't want to count how many times he could have broken the chain, but hadn't... 'I said stop!'

Ahh... His mind wasn't such a safe place anymore, was it?

"Ah, thank you, Russia. I... I'll do that." What? Do what? Oh.

Russia had already forgotten the conversation, but to be fair Germany had taken a very, very long time to answer him. The taller nation just gave a little smile as the German nodded and turned his dazed blue eyes towards the top of the hill, taking a few more moments to gather himself before he started walking. He would be heading back to Berlin with his brother now that this was over, at least until they heard something from Italy about the nation's condition. Russia couldn't say for sure how long Germany would be willing to wait before checking in with the brothers, but hopefully he would not do anything rash in the meantime.

So, was it over? Russia watched Germany leave and then turned back towards the towering pile of rubble and debris. Shattered bricks, white cinder blocks, slabs of concrete and splintered wooden beams... There were pieces of broken furniture peppering the remains, twisted wires reaching out to grasp at the sky like mangled fingers...

It felt like it was over. At least this part did, this loop... What about all the others? What would have happened if they hadn't stopped the monster from turning back time? What if the beast hadn't really died and they'd been left here with only the illusion of victory?

Every loop was real and everything that happened had consequences- for those loops. How many failed loops existed beyond the ones in Italy's journal? How many other worlds existed now where the United States of America had ceased to exist? Or France? Or Russia himself? What about the worlds where none of them had lived?

What about the ones where eleven nations had died, but one Italian had escaped across time to another loop and rescued them? What did those worlds look like?

Walking until he reached the edge of where it was safe to wander, at Russia's feet now was the door that had tormented them all more than any other. It was the great big steel monstrosity that had slammed shut behind them in every loop, the one that never opened no matter how hard they pounded or screamed or fought with it. There was a hole blown through it now, obscuring the glyph that had done as much to keep them trapped as the heavy bolts which had anchored it into the stone walls. There was no blood on the metal looking up at him: if there was ever any sign of the trauma painted on the blackened steel, it would be on the charred interior facing the ground, not the outward facade.

It was over. Germany and the others hadn't just stopped the monster from taking Italy; once the beast began to writhe in the wake of the mansion's destruction they had jumped on it like dogs. Russia had already vowed to get himself a new cane-sword: the one he was still holding was splattered with brackish green fluid from the monster's body and he wanted to keep it as a memento. Something to hang on his wall, a memory of the justice, small as it was, that had been dealt to their tormentor.

The Italian Brothers had left before the fighting was even over, but that had been the point of getting them up into the back of the first Swiss army vehicle that came roaring down the road towards their position. They had to go home. Romano had had to get his brother as far away from the mansion as possible and then get him home. South Italy had left for those obvious reasons, and Germany and Japan stayed behind for vengeful ones.

The monster's grey body had been beaten beyond the point of recognition, which was satisfying in its own way. It was a shame that so many of the original ten- or even the total twelve, hadn't been able to partake in the killing, but again each man had his own role to fulfill. England and America would understand, Italy and Romano probably wouldn't care, France was too far away and China... well, someone would find a way to console China.

The rest of them had gathered the items the monster had worn to torment Italy- the gold-edged hat, the black cape, the sharp knife. They'd waited until they were sure that the magic was gone and the monster's body too crippled and broken for it to put up any more of a fight, and then burnt the beast and the tokens together. It was a sweet victory. To stomp and spit on the ashes of a foe who had tormented them was rewarding, satisfying, a proper return for the pain, and the humiliation, and the hopelessness, and the futility, and the... all of the...

No. It... it really wasn't enough... Nothing would ever be enough, but this was all they'd been given. This little victory and their own lives were the only things they had. It was not enough, but it would have to be.

"He..." Russia glanced to his left, catching sight of Japan standing next to him, staring down at the mangled door at their feet. "He won..." The island nation was standing with one hand on his sword hilt, the other hanging straight at his side, a fist pressed against his thigh. "He won." Italy. "He won and you-"

Japan wasn't speaking to Russia, he understood this just by watching how fiercely the shorter nation was looking down at the warped metal. Japan had been as brutal as the rest of them when dealing with the last creature, the ring leader, but he had been completely silent while the rest of them made their opinion clear with both fists and words. Russia was calm now, but he had felt an anger so hot and cold inside of him that he almost hadn't known what to do with his hands to pay back the pain that had torn him apart. The agony had disturbed his stomach and filled his lungs with poisoned relief and toxic dread, and he'd wanted the creature to get a taste of that. Just a taste.

"And you- you just..." But Japan was very good at hiding things like that. It was probably only by virtue of everyone else drifting away to help purge the land and direct the soldiers that he was taking this moment now to speak, to let out the things boiling and bubbling under his calm shell. The tiny Empire was wavering slightly from side to side, feet spread just enough so he wouldn't lose his balance, and that was good. Russia didn't want to have to catch Japan if he fell, and he didn't want to watch the other nation kneel in front of this door.

"Italy won." Yes. Italy won. Out of all the countless loops, in this one he triumphed. He beat the odds, he escaped the monster, and he freed the rest of them. He gave them back their power and identity as nations. He gave them back their people and their culture and their histories. He gave them back their memories and bonded them in a way they would not forget. Italy had given them names and made those names more important than they had ever been before.

They'd helped him escape today, but he'd still engineered that all on his own, hadn't he? Romano had led the charge but someone must have given him the information, the warnings, the precautions... Without him today would never have happened. Italy-

"ITALY WON!" Ivan Braginski knew that Kiku Honda was a strong, proud Japanese man, and he knew that he did not let his emotions free without good reason. Kiku did not laugh loudly with his best friends or carry on with any extreme actions or behaviours, he usually wouldn't even give a straight answer to a direct question.

But now:

"YOU HURT US!" Now Kiku was screaming, and Ivan wasn't even bothered enough to look at him and wonder why. There was no asking why.

"YOU TRICKED US! YOU RUINED US-" Because if Kiku wasn't the one shouting, then it would have been Ivan. Because a day's worth of suffering and violence wasn't enough for everything they'd endured. "BUT YOU LOST! YOU LOST AND ITALY-"

As stoic as Kiku Honda was, Ivan Braginski was just as concerned with making sure he was never perceived as weak. Loneliness in a cold land could break the spirit and shatter the heart. It was better to never let the General know how much his storms hurt and wounded you in case the next one blew you away. After centuries of conditioning it took a lot to make any of the hurt come forward, it didn't matter what caused it anymore: the hurt of dying, the hurt of watching others die, the hurt of being helpless, of being mortal, of being broken down into pieces of what he was supposed to be, of feeling like he was forever removed from the whole.

He was the Russian Federation and this mansion had broken him. This cursed ruin, this godless beast, this place that existed everywhere in all time-lines, this place where everything that happened in or near it was real. It was all real.

It hurt and it hurt and Kiku's voice was coming from someplace deep down inside of them both, rising in volume and pitch until it soared over the broken debris and attacked the grey sky domed over their heads. Ivan closed his eyes against the stinging sensation that was too dangerous to give into when you were standing in the cold. Russian tears were as rare as Japanese screams, but when he was standing in front of this door and these ruins... he didn't have the strength to keep them back. They were things that hadn't wanted to be free, that hadn't known how to escape: but they could come out now, because it was over.

"ITALY WON!"

And the nightmare was over.

Canada wanted to go home. It was the highest priority on his list, or maybe just second-highest, but he really, really wanted to leave Europe behind and go home. He just needed America to wake up first because it would be wrong to leave without making sure his brother was okay. In fact, scratch that: it would be wrong to leave without making sure his brother was on the same plane with him. After what they'd gone through, Canada didn't mind landing in an American airport or military base if it meant making sure his twin was going to be alright.

It was all too reminiscent of terrible dreams and horrible memories of the mansion; of America and England trading off stupid, reckless acts with one another so that no matter what, one of them always died in every loop. Canada couldn't think of a single one where both had survived except for theirs, and that was too painful to consider.

There was conflict, wide and varying, about where to treat the wounded and injured after their mission's conclusion. The Nations who had vanished had had no choice in the matter: Poland had woken up in the Tomb of the Unknown in Warsaw, China had called Russia several times so Canada knew he was beaten up and burnt, but whole and alive in Beijing.

The mission was almost twenty-four hours behind them and Canada had only slept for the last four. He'd done a very brief circuit of the military hospital in Bern to figure out where every one was and how they were doing, and then come back here to America's small room.

Finland and Denmark were still standing watch over Norway and Sweden. The former had worked his magic until his heart burst from over-exertion, the latter had been blasted back during their assault and been run through on a large branch- the falling pillar hadn't helped either. They would both be alright and Sweden was expected to wake up first, but he wouldn't recover as quickly as Norway. The nordics were prepared to stay in Bern until both of them were awake and strong enough for travel back home.

Prussia was doing alright and had sent Germany back to Berlin. Canada wasn't sure what he thought of that. On the one hand it made sense: they were nations first, people second, and the German Federation needed to be around German people for a while before he could handle whatever was waiting south of the border. But at the same time... This was Italy they were talking about. Italy who'd died, and come back, and then died again, didn't that sort of trauma demand something more from his closest friend? Italy would need time too, but Canada just hoped Germany knew what he was doing.

In the meantime, Prussia was here with Hungary. Canada had spoken to him a few times, sometimes Prussia would leave Hungary's side and come see him, and every couple of hours Canada could pull himself from America's quiet bed-side and sit with his German friend. They didn't have more than a few ounces of history together, but the mansion had more or less made friends of them all.

Even if friends was too much for some of them, the bond was still strong enough that Canada was alright watching Hungary not breathe on the sterile hospital bed. The last time he'd been in there he'd noticed how Hungary's hair had been brushed and pulled back off her face. Several deep lacerations had gouged her cheek, but the organ-bruising shock of the first plane's explosion had been what did her in. She would wake up, and Prussia would wait until she did.

Japan hadn't said where he was going exactly, but he'd gone with Germany to Berlin in the meantime. Hopefully those two would be able to figure something out before Japan left for Asia.

England hadn't died. He'd passed out, yes, but his heart hadn't stopped and- despite a fierce scare for Wales, Canada's former guardian had only required minor assistance to keep breathing after the wild magic he'd cast. He'd physically reached too far: through the barrier and into a speeding jet-fighter, there was no way to understand how he'd even managed to pull it off but the price had been pain and trauma that far exceeded the punishment he'd been dealt in the Final Loop.

Canada had just been about to leave the room with the four members of the United Kingdom when England had sluggishly regained a few moments of consciousness. He'd barely been awake enough for a nurse to run a quick series of tests on him, and then with a slurred attempt at America's human name England had faded out again.

It... Canada hadn't known how to take that, but whatever his reaction it hadn't been as bad as Scotland's. The eldest Briton had stormed out of the room and presumably left the hospital, but as soon as Canada came back to America's room that was where he found England's brother.

"This is who he did it for," was all he said, and then with a curt nod the Scotsman had left again. All things considered Canada could have walked in to find Scotland strangling or smothering America with a pillow, so he was relieved that things ended the way they did. It was also Scotland who requested that England remain in Bern until he was well enough for the ride back to London. England had woken up a few more times since then, but he didn't seem ready yet, according to his brothers.

Canada suspected they were waiting for America to wake up, and they were only doing it for England's peace of mind.

Russia went home, but only after spending the night keeping watch by Canada's side. It was nice to have someone next to him, someone who preferred to be calm rather than wild, someone who was willing to while away the hours talking about whatever. Friendly conversation that had nothing to do with monsters, or clocks, or blood, or gunfire, or plane-crashes. It was the emotional cushion they both needed, it was what let Canada sleep for those four hours after Russia finally bid him good bye and returned to Moscow.

He'd only woken up again after four hours because that was when a harried and exhausted-looking France finally found his way into the room.

"How are you feeling?" Quiet French and a warm hand on his shoulder were what brought the sleepy blonde out of his dark sleep. Canada hadn't meant to fall asleep in his chair next to America's bed, but the steady beeping of the heart-rate monitor had lulled him into temporary darkness. It was almost noon outside, but Canada's internal clock was so smashed and broken that he really had no idea where he was. "You look terrible, do they have any showers here?"

"I'm not sure." Canada answered in a groggy whisper, carefully pulling his glasses off and rubbing his face with one hand. He was still wearing his dirty fatigues from the day before, having only had a chance to wash his face and hands since arriving. Well, he'd certainly had had the time to get cleaned up, but he hadn't thought about it. "Probably. It's military, right?" The base. The hospital. They were in a hospital, right?

"You're hopeless when you're sleepy. Here." A tall paper cup filled with something hot was placed in Canada's hand, worry sparking in his stomach at the thought of terrible European coffee- he could handle it in small doses, speciality brews and wretchedly strong concoctions, but not right after a nap. "Don't make that face, it's tea." He wanted coffee from home, the much lighter, much nicer brew he was used to in the red cups he loved.

But tea would do.

"Cinnamon..." It wasn't maple, but Canada didn't export enough of his favourite condiment to warrant France finding it at a random Swiss cafe. "Thanks." The warm scent was comforting and reminded him enough of home that he could just sink into his uncomfortable chair and tease his tongue with the warm drink. In the time it had taken France find him here the tea had cooled to the perfect temperature. He closed his eyes peacefully as he heard the other nation pull a chair over from the wall so he could sit next to him, America's sleeping form in easy reach.

"This too."

A croissant wrapped in paper. Canada didn't feel hungry but he knew he hadn't eaten anything since this time yesterday- actually several hours before, so he bit into the flaky pastry without worrying too much about it. His stomach was empty and graciously accepted the food, his nerves at ease knowing he wasn't going to chase the butter with black espresso.

"So..." Canada started, licking semi-sweet crumbs off his lips before forming the words. France had had a chance to clean up and change into street clothes: jeans and a long blue jacket, simple leather shoes and his usual blonde scruff. His hair was pulled back in a tail at the base of his head, but he still looked worn-out when Canada caught a good look at his blue eyes. "What happened up there?"

They talked their way through the mission slowly. The breakdown in communication, the hair-raising interference from the monster, the terror when the first Italian plane had burst into flames and plummeted from the sky...

"I know Romano will be able to tell us who was who and all of that, but I still took this when we landed," France said, holding up a set of stainless steel Italian dog-tags for Canada to see. When Canada asked how he'd got a hold of them (and why was the chain broken?) France just shrugged with a smile and said: "Big brother has his ways." Big brother?

"I thought you wanted me to call you Papa?"

"Papa is only for you, my dear." Him and other former Colonies who actually liked France, at least. "You wound me, Matthew! Alas, my poor heart..."

It felt good to laugh, and it felt even better when someone interrupted them:

"God damn... speak English, will ya?"

Canada set his cup down on the little table attached to America's bed, quieting his laughter but trying not to wipe the smile off his face as he stood up. France stood too, but hung back a little by the foot of America's bed, keeping his distance so as not to crowd them.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" From French into English, Canada spoke the words carefully and in a soft voice as he looked down at the half-lidded blue eyes struggling to look up at him. America's smile was crooked and he looked funny without his glasses, but he'd had to wear contacts during the mission and Texas had been folded up neatly next to the bed since they'd arrived.

"Like shit... What happened?" America was playing with his tongue after he finished the words, curling it back and forth behind his teeth and making a funny face. Canada just smiled a bit more and picked up the bottle of water next to his tea, cracking the seal and dropping a straw in through the neck before holding it out. He wouldn't feel all the way better until he brushed his teeth, but a drink would help.

"You crashed."

America chuckled around his water, sucking back a few more gulps before releasing the straw. His goofy grin was back and he lifted one arm up and back behind his head.

"Right... No, seriously, what happened?" Canada raised an eyebrow at the question, but he just shrugged and gave a bit of a laugh as he set the water down.

"You... came in on your approach, you fired at the target... and then you crashed."

"Dude, I didn't crash."

"Al..." Canada was trying really hard not to frown at his brother, but it wasn't easy. "Your plane punched a smoking crater into trees on the property. You almost died."

"I feel fine." America shot back, and Canada didn't doubt his ability to recover. Going from 'shit' to 'fine' like that was a bit of a stretch, but he'd been passed out sleeping for a day and the more he spoke, the clearer he was becoming. Being top dog had its perks, even if America was stuck over-seas. "I haven't crashed a plane since '45. Like, I mean with me flying it."

Instead of answering, Canada took the breath necessary to form the words and just held it in. He didn't want to argue right now, his brother had just woken up and the guy deserved to have a few hours of peace. They were supposed to be happy, their mission had been a success, and this wasn't the time for squabbling.

"We'll talk about this later." Or, more accurately, America would talk about it with his boss when he had to explain why the air-force was missing an F-16.

"In the meantime..." France said, his voice smoothing over the rough conversation as he nudged Canada's shoulder to get the other blonde's attention. "Do you know if England is still here? I'd hate to pass Paris for London, but-"

"Where's here?" America interrupted, and Canada looked between the two of them for a moment, ordering his next sentence carefully.

"Switzerland. You've been asleep since yesterday, America." He said the words as kindly as he could, hoping his brother wouldn't misconstrue them as some kind of criticism, then he looked back at France. "And he's still here, his brothers don't want to move him until he feels a bit stronger. Prussia's on this floor with Hungary, Japan and Russia went home, I think Spain was waiting for you to get here and Germany's already left for Berlin."

"Is this a hospital?" America cut in again, interrupting France who'd been about to say something. "What the fuck is England doing in a hospital?"

"Language, Amerique." France rolled the sound of the name over his tongue to emphasize the criticism without actually saying as much. His blue eyes found Canada's right after, and as if he could read the Canadian's thoughts, France switched over to his native tongue again: "Is he on this floor?"

"One above us," Canada followed suit. "His brothers are all there."

"Of course." France smiled at them both and let his words slip back into English for America's benefit. Canada was well aware of how hotly his brother was watching the back of his neck, expecting an answer to his question and clearly frustrated, as he always was, by the bilingualism. He shouldn't have been so upset: America knew multiple languages, but he was tired and therefore too cranky to put up with anything except English right now.

"Do not stress yourself, my friend. And if I do not see you again then have a safe trip home."

"Right."

"Au revoir, Papa." A pat on the ankle for the bedridden American and a quick, rough hug for the Canadian, and with that the Frenchman was gone.

"Explain."

"Why are you being like this?" America's voice was hard when he made the demand, Canada giving what he thought was a valid response as he looked down at his hard-eyed brother again. "Texas is on the table there if your eyes are blurry. Are you hungry?"

"Canada, tell me what happened." He'd take that as a no on both counts then.

"How far back do you want me to start?" Taking his seat again at America's bedside, Canada picked up the lukewarm tea France had brought him and sipped at the spicy cinnamon again.

"What happened to England?" They both needed a shave and a shower, fresh clothes would have been nice too, but for now America seemed willing to ignore everything else as he sat up a little and took a good look around his hospital room. There was next to nothing of note besides the bed, chairs and unnecessary monitors hovering around him, but he performed his scan anyways.

"Over-exertion, but he's expected to recover." Canada answered, prepared for when America's harsh blue eyes rounded back on him. "Al, he's fine. He's a nation-"

"Did his heart stop?"

"No. But Norway's-"

"What about his eyes?" Canada was quiet for a moment, using the cup as his excuse. He didn't appreciate being drilled for information, least of all in that tone of voice.

"Cloudy, but I haven't seen him awake for more than a few minutes."

"Why?"

"Pain meds." America's hand was gripping the blankets tightly, and Canada wondered if he'd noticed it yet. "They're going to take him off of them sometime today though, he's healing quickly."

"From what?"

"You know we can go see him if you-"

"Canada."

"Yes?"

Silence. Because polite responses had a habit of catching America off-guard. It didn't always work- Canada wasn't always polite, but it disarmed his brother this time and the northern twin waited patiently for the other one to regroup. Finishing off the contents of his paper cup, Canada dropped it in the waste basket next to the bed and settled back into his chair again. America didn't take his eyes off him, and he didn't stop scowling, but he did calm down.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He can't walk." Dancing around the issue was only getting him on America's bad side, so Canada was upfront with it now. "And there's some paralysis in his arms as well, when he over-extended himself the magic ripped up his spine." Up his spine and out along his arm, crippling his hand while he was at it before he collapsed. England was already doing better, he was getting the feeling back bit by bit the longer he slept, but he was going to be in recovery for a while.

Canada watched his brother stare at the wall for a few minutes in complete silence, thinking back to what little he still remembered of the time loops inside the mansion. Should he tell America why England had over-reached like that? Would it just upset him if he-?

"That asshole!" oh, um, "What the fuck is wrong with that guy? Does he get off on burning himself out like that all the time?" America's face twisted into a snarl and he snapped the words like an angry dog. Canada just sat there silently, watching, trying to read his brother and figure out if he meant the words or not. It was in America's character to lash out if he was actually worried, but that wasn't what this sounded like... "God damn, when are we going home?"

"Don't... you want to see him?"

"I did before you told me he was such a douche." Watching his twin fold his arms and scowl, Canada could read him just fine and he wondered why the blunt rebuttal hurt him a little bit. "I knew you guys on the ground were having a rough time, but seriously, I thought he was better than that." Said the guy who'd crashed and now denied it. As America flopped onto his side so he was facing him instead of the wall, his brother picked up on Canada's troubled feelings. He was actually choosing to read the atmosphere for once, and Canada didn't mind it.

"Oi, what's that face for?"

"I'm just exhausted." Canada answered, closing his eyes and scratching the back of his head to relieve a dirty itch. He really wanted a shower. "You're right, it was rough on the ground but France told me it was just as tight in the air."

"It was fucked up, I'll give you that much..." Quiet again, but not for as long, and not nearly as strained. Canada wasn't lying: he really was just too tired for all of this.

"You up for a civilian flight?" He asked.

"I'm up for gettin' out of Europe." America flashed him a toothy grin. It looked a little forced, but that was alright. "And First Class'd be great, but France has my wallet." He'd probably left it with his personnel back at the Istres Air Base, the place he and France had launched their planes from in order to provide air-support during Italy's rescue...

"Pay me back when we get home?"

"S'long as we go home..." And they would.

But first they'd shower, and shave, and find fresh clothes...

It's 14 pages long but you know what? I wrote it five times.

On this note however, I should point out that my Tumblr account (LSunnyC) has become a dumping ground for all the scene fragments that didn't make the final cut. A lot of the stuff that happened but didn't get shown has been tossed up under the hashtag "HetaOni: Recovery" for those looking for more, ship-teases included.

-Repost, September 18th, 2012.