"Hospitals are boring..." America whined to England, tossing aside the stupid, childish alien magazine he'd been reading in a dramatic display.

The Englishman, however, paid him no mind and instead chose to quietly ignore the yank and sip his tea, eyes skimming over the tiny print of his thickly-bound, yellow-paged fantasy novel.

"Englaaaaaand! Talk to me! I'm booooored!" the American persisted.

With an exasperated sigh, England moodily shut his book and looked at the blonde in the hospital bed.

"Okay, America. You officially have my attention. Now, what do you want?" England sighed.

America began to rant. And whine. And complain. And then some more of each. England slumped back into his uncomfortable chair which had been his bed for the past two nights. It had been much quieter before America had woken up. He had either been asleep or pumped full of sedatives and was so drugged he could barely form a full coherent sentence and would have a tendency to randomly burst into fits of laughter (the latter of which England found thoroughly amusing). Why don't I just leave? He's a big boy... England thought as he listened half-heartedly to the young man's woes. Though, of course, England decided it was best to stay with the boy. Though he hated to admit it, it felt like he was the big brother again: standing by the younger nation in his time of need, being needed, taking care of him. America was his former colony after all... No! Stop it! He told himself, you'll only work yourself up!

"Fucking Russia…" England heard America snort when he came back to earth, "I go over there to visit because he's gotta be lonely and why let good plane tickets go to waste and what's the bastard do? He tried to fuckin' kill me! That's what Fuckin' Russia did..."

The heart monitor hooked up to America began to loudly beep and it wasn't five minutes before a nurse with a pager ran in. After realizing there was no problem (other than the fact that America probably hadn't taken his A.D.H.D medication in days) she began to heartily scold America, much to England's amusement. Serves the git right for getting himself worked up, England mused to himself while attempting to suppress a smirk. After a darn good chastising, the nurse left America with cheeks reddened in humiliation.

"Well now. I say, Good show!" England busted out into a fit of giggles.

America's already red cheeks deepened into a light crimson as he witnessed the Englishman laughing at him.

"S-shut up!" He spat, narrowing his eyes and trying to keep himself from reddening further.

"Alright, alright, but only so you don't cause that nurse to run in here again." England replied, scooping up the foolish magazine that had landed on the floor and handing it to America, earning a muttered "thanks".

A few moments of silence passed between them. England sipped once more at his now lukewarm tea and was about to reach for his thickly bound novel when America spoke once more,

"Hey England..." He began slowly, his tongue testing out the words as he spoke, "how did you guys find me...? You, France, and Canada?"

"Well... It wasn't as hard as we feared, yet not as easy as we had hoped. You see, when you didn't come home when you said you would, your boss became rather worried. He telephoned Matthew's boss asking if you were there. When Canada didn't know where you were, he recruited France and I to assit him to find you. We searched all over Siberia until and old couple in a town near your location stated that they recognized the description we gave for you and pointed us in the right direction. Once we reached the town, we managed to get the location after persuading some local officers..." England replied.

America seemed thoughtful, "So you went through all of that... just for me?"

"... Well... I guess you could say tha-"

"You guys fuckin' rock." America interjected before England could finish."... Thank you" England finally replied followed by a chuckle.

America was in darkness. So dark that if he was to hold his hand in front of his face he wouldn't be able to see it. His heart was pounding. Make that racing. He had no Godly idea where he was and it was so damn cold... And echoing chuckle could be heard bouncing off the walls. America stood in what he feared was the center of the room where the mystery chuckler could sneak up from behind...

SCREAM!

Cold hands firmly clasped themselves onto the American's shoulders. Cold, leather-gloved, monolithic hands. A scream bubbled up from the depths of America's throat but never had the chance to escape when an aforementioned cold, monolithic, leather-gloved hand clamped down over the American's mouth, choking back the scream. Cold lips placed themselves by his ear,

"Why do you resist my dear comrade, Amerika? Don't you like the hell I have created for you?" That Russian accent stung in America's ears.

"N-no!" The American sputtered once he had pried the thick hand from his face, "This is sick!"

The Russian chuckled a dark and sinister chuckle, as if only chortling to himself to make America's skin crawl which was, sadly, a great possibility. The hand clasped on his shoulder tightened its grip, causing a sharp pain to pulse in America's muscles.

"Da… It is," Russia spoke slowly, his tone disturbingly soothing, almost a soft coo, "But I have my reasons, comrade… reasons that your stupid, feebly mind cannot comprehend yet."

"Stupid? Feeble? "America snapped, "I'll be damned if you call me stu-," the hand clamped down over his mouth again, only tighter this time, choking America off mid-sentence.

"Da. Your mind is feeble and stupid because you haven't figured out that you are just a puppet yet."

America wriggled and squirmed in the Russian's grip to no avail. He attempted to protest his discontentedness, but once again Russia's grip held fast.

"Don't protest. Just listen…" He said softly in that same comforting voice, "England colonized you, and you were content until the colonists told you that you weren't, so you rebelled. The other Allies tricked you into join both World Wars, and I myself steered you into the Cold War because I wanted to see how strong you truly were. But now, you are weakened. Your economy is in a pitiful state, your people are unhappy, and your government is lost."

He took the hand that was clasped on America's shoulder and snapped his fingers, and a small spotlight appeared and under said spotlight was a full length mirror. Russia gently shoved America towards the mirror, hand still firmly in over his mouth; his other hand resumed its place on his shoulder. America was trembling uncontrollably and could feel any control he might have had slip through his shaking hands. Closer and closer they approached the mirror, until Russia forced him to halt right in front of it. America squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes." Russia cooed in his ear.

Weary and defeated, America opened his eyes. There, in the mirror standing before him, was someone who looked just like him, of course. But it wasn't him… was it? Yes… It had to be, he was looking into a mirror after all, but what the hell was he wearing? Texas was still perched on the bridge oh his nose, and his bomber jacket was still held snuggly around him, however, a crimson red scarf with an attractive white and blue trim was wound around his throat. While this still disturbed America, there was still something wrong… then he spotted it. His eyes. His beautiful eyes were no longer that bright, pure, cerulean blue, but a pale shade of lavender.

America began to thrash in Russia's tight hold, yet as always, Russia held tight, that annoying little smile plastered to his face. Then he spoke,

"I will give you time to reflect on what you have seem, Amerika. Just remember, you are not your own, you're a puppet…."

"Damn it all, Alfred! Wake up you bloody wanker! It's just a dream!"

Through the haze of the nightmare and sleep came England's annoyed voice (Or was it concerned? To America, sometimes it was hard to tell…). But the shouting Brit persisted until America opened his eyes. It was definitely concern in England's voice and not annoyance, America decided, it was etched in his eyes.

"About damn time you woke up!" He huffed, some of the concern slipping into agitation, but not much, "you've been wailing like a banshee for almost twenty minutes!"

America felt England's grip tightening on his shoulders and yelped, earning a confused expression from the other. The America was fully awake now, eyes wide and wild and terrified. His hand shot up to his shoulders and curtly swatted away the Brit's hands, then gently caressed his neck, a slight sigh of relief passing his lips. The American then wrapped his arms around his chest in an attempt to lessen his trembling.

Any agitation and annoyance in England was quickly substituted with worry for the nation beside him. He gently took America's face in his hands, only to receive an unexpected hostile reaction. The American smacked the Brit's hands off his face and glared daggers at him.

"Don't touch me," His voice was cold and laced with fear.

England was roughly taken aback, "America…" He whispered hoarsely, "Please calm yourself. It was just a nightmare." He offered weakly, being careful to resist the urge to embrace the trembling country.

This seemed to help. America's blue eyes softened, and his shaking was decreased, but not yet ceased. England pressed forward with weary caution, not wishing to evoke more negativity from the American.

"You're alright. Whatever happened isn't real, it was a dream." England spoke as one would speak to a spooked animal.

The American grabbed onto England, burying his face into the other's chest. He wasn't crying, but he was trembling again, but not as severely as before. England gently ran his fingers through America's silky, golden hair just as he used to when America was a child. For once he felt it would be justice to let his "big brother" instincts take over as he gently hummed an old English lullaby (once again from America's youth) and rocked the American back and forth gently. England felt the trembling stop, but he continued his soothing routine, and if he heard a sniffle from the young man, he'd make soft shushing coos to relax the other. Somewhere in the house, a clock was tolling the new hour and England wasn't sure how long he had been cuddling America, or why he still was, or what had spurred America's need for this attention, but he knew he was holding him and that he didn't plan on letting go soon. Question would have to wait until the morning, but until then, England decided, he's relish the moment.