The pictures filtering through what was left of the news satellites were grim. The numbers of dead and wounded- daunting. Through it all, England could only watch and listen to the very impersonal calculations with the same surreal passivity that had enveloped him since France had showed up on his doorstep with the news.

Still, each time the phone rang, each time someone knocked upon his front door (and there were many of those, each Nation scrambling for information, for a sense of what was going to happen now that he had fallen...) England felt the hope surge through his entire body, almost expected that familiar face to appear, for that beloved voice to whisper his name-

England's heart was in his mouth as he opened the door this morning, three days after... his boss had refused to allow him to fly to America, to be next to him. There was too much at stake in the world to act upon personal feelings. England had to find a way to keep the rest of the world's markets from collapsing, keep the vultures at bay while his people, and other allies tried to piece together what was left.

(Bad things came in threes, Reflected England once in the hours after hearing of the multi-pronged attack. It hadn't been enough that the EMP bomb had escaped a greatly reduced military shield to neutralize most of America's communications networks and electronics. The bombing that had followed had specifically targeted his military and financial centres. Granted the automatic retaliation by the forces not within the weapons range had reduced North Korea to nearly as much rubble as it had left America, but still... England was waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.)

The heavy door seemed even more weighty as he pulled it open to find... the familiar face that had been haunting his dreams on the other side. A face etched in lines of exhaustion, Plasters on the side of his face, half covering the bruise- And sombre violet eyes met his.

Canada, who was close enough to America to be affected by the blasts, by the EMP-

England broke.

It took an hour for England to calm down.

But the tears still threatened like never before.

"Spain is going to take Mexico under his protection. He's pretty bad off right now." Canada's fingers fidgeted on his lap. As soon as he noticed, he was pouring England another cup of tea, fussing with the sugar, the milk, and the biscuits that had been dug out of a stash that America had brought to him. "My people are recovering well. It didn't hit us as hard as- I thought I'd better come."
"Why?" England managed, "Why didn't you-"

"I went to America's house," Canada went on, as though he'd never spoken, a spark of his brother's bravado shining through. "He wasn't there."

"He was ill. He was supposed to be resting- I was supposed to be there in the evening." England's heart ached. "If he wasn't there-"

"His friend Tony was there." Canada's bravado was a show, England could clearly see the sorrow in his eyes. "America was gone the entire day before-. Told Tony he wanted to surprise you with something, and he needed to go get it by himself- and then in the night-"

"Where is America now?" England had to ask. Please, let it be a hospital. A refugee camp. Somewhere that he could fly into, and at least see those eyes, touch that face- let him know that ...

"I don't know." Canada stopped looking at England. "The house was destroyed, England. It's on the edge of one of the blast zones- the closest city was the ground zero for one of the bombs. Tony barely survived."

"Then he-" The edges of the world grew fuzzy. Oh Gods, America. The sweet-faced baby, the handsome young man- the one who had loved England so wholeheartedly-

"England? England!" The panic in Canada's voice brought him back- "England, I don't think he's dead."

"He-" England clung to the slender thread of hope that the twin's voice gave him, stammering uselessly. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I can feel what he's feeling, and the other way around. It's like a swinging door between us- but..."

"If he's alive, then you can find him." England rubbed his eyes on the back of a cuff. America was always making him cry. He shouldn't become a watering pot if the boy was just a little lost. "Why are you here then, instead of looking for him?"

"Because the door is blocked, and I can't open it anymore." Canada's voice trembled. "If he were dead, it would just be gone, right? And with his lands and people like they are- I don't know if..."

"My people are doing what they can," England was suddenly grateful that his PM had decided against his going. On the ground in America, he would be just another rubble shifter- in the way, more often than not- here he could make the necessary arrangements to continue to protect the boy and his people. "Everything is a bloody mess, thanks to cutbacks, but-"

"I can help from where I am." Canada was holding his hand, England suddenly realized, and rubbing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And I can keep looking. With all the electronics cooked like they are, it's going to just take a little longer. I will call you with anything that I find."

After Canada left, things continued on.

Keep calm, and carry on, as the motto went. England and Canada shared the responsibility for helping the people get back on their feet- but the government was weak. Infrastructures were shattered with both records and communications.

Keep calm. England often had to remind himself, though the near physical ache of wanting to just hold America once more nearly sent him to the brink.

But, as days turned to weeks, the only calls from Canada were to keep England informed upon some of the day to day operations that needed doing. No signs of America, the personification. No one had heard of an 'Alfred Jones', or if they had, it was always not the correct one, and the search would begin again.

A year passed.

Then two.

A handful of years, and America's lands were scarred and torn, but healing. The strong people were surviving, some thriving- and England was almost used to the emptiness of his bed, the absence of all-hours phone calls to talk about nothing in particular.

("I think it will always hurt," England told France in one particular moment of weakness. "I want to believe he's alive, and just trying to find his way home."

France just nodded, and refrained from groping England, as he helped him home to bed. He had heard similar from Canada, and between the two of them and the lost lapin, he wondered if his own heart could take watching them continue to deny what had happened.)

In the eleventh year, England had almost given up hoping, and focused on the continuation of the relationship between himself and Canada's protectorate (Because Canada still refused to give up, and merely absorb his neighbor, his twin, into his own lands. He wasn't Russia.)

At midnight, the day before the anniversary of the last time anyone had seen America, England's phone rang.

"D'you have any idea what bloody time it is?" England slurred into the phone, still drugged with sleep, and quite annoyed not to be allowed to continue it.

"Sorry, sorry- I forgot the time difference," The familiar soft tones apologised. Canada. "But Arthur-"

"It's all right, Matthew." England slipped into the more familiar form of address easily, "I'm sure it was important. That annexation movement acting up again?"

"I have a lead." The soft voice was, England realised only now, shaking. And with those four words, he himself was wide awake and doing the same. "England- Arthur. After all this time- I- I was about ready to give up, and then this-"

"You found him." Breath catching in his throat, heart racing. He'd only thought he'd been close to giving up."He's alive-"

"I found a lead," corrected the other voice. "It may be entirely the wrong person, and just a coincidence that he looks like- but-"

"What did you find?" The slender golden threads of hope were stronger than England.

"A Polaroid snapshot- it's almost eleven years old, so it's really faded, but that's the only thing they had, so they used them-"

"Why- what-" England was lost for words.

"Digital cameras weren't working- and even if they did work, what use would they be if you had to have the camera in order to share the picture?" Canada continued, not even waiting for a response, or stuttered word. "Chemical photography was the most immediate thing- The numbers of dead and missing were so high, and people were doing what they could to reunite families- including the ones who were too young to give any information, and the ones who were unable to give any information-"

The idea processed in his head. Yes, he'd heard stories of people finding one another, miraculously surviving- but England had been too busy looking for a name, listening for that phone call-

"There were a lot of dead, and unaccounted for- there still are. But there were wounded and lost children who were found in the rubble. And adults- some found relatives, but a lot- well, they took these pictures of some of the kids and some of the folks they couldn't find any identification on, and tried to circulate them to see if anyone would come forward-" Matthew barely paused for breath, "And one of them looks a lot like him. It's not … in the area we thought he'd be, and he looks awful, but still, it looks like- Al. And he's alive. America is- Alfred is-"

"Where?" England tossed his duvet aside, and swung his legs out of bed. Fuck sleeping. "Where is he, and why hasn't he even sent a message to one of us? Eleven bloody years, and-"

"I don't know, Arthur," Matthew said, "I don't know why, or if he's still there- "

"I'm coming over on the next flight out." England staggered a bit as he reached for his shirt. "Where am I going?"

"I'll make the arrangements, England, you go back to sleep."

"As if I could." Energy pulsed at the very thought of seeing- being able to hold- "I can't sleep, knowing-"

"Look... things have recovered well here, but it's still a bit of a mess in the information department. It took me this long to find this picture because of the sheer number of pictures and drawings being circulated. If he's there, you don't want to look like a zombie, and if he's not- well, we'll keep looking, and you'll need all your strength for that." He could hear the effort in the voice, and knew: Canada was having the same difficulty as England in not immediately running to wherever it was the photo had originated. "It's been eleven years, Arthur. One more day won't hurt."

"But..." England started to protest, but he knew Canada was correct, and he wouldn't do anyone any good if he were exhausted.

"When you wake up, the itinerary will be at your door, and I'll meet you at the airport. Sleep- I have more phone calls to make."

Reluctantly, England obeyed, and found it far too easy to slip back into slumber- but this time, instead of nightmares about that day, there were far sweeter images on his mind- of blue eyes lighting up as they lit upon England, and the tight embrace that followed.

His pillow was wet when he awakened.