Author's note: Today, my computer is being just a little bit slow, so I have to be nice to it. Things are going along here, so I can't complain, but I am anxious to move into my new apartment, and adopt a cat, or maybe a dog- which would get me out walking more. This is also my final year of college! (It took me long enough- grrr…) But more importantly- to you, dear readers, is that I have this next chapter posted, but I can claim no ownership of APH, but enjoy anyway.

Chapter 4 Refugees

France was tired, and just wanted to get home for a good, deep rest. It took some cajoling, but he managed to convince the usually irritable and just as worn out England to give him and his charge a lift home. Like hell he was going to drive Germany across the lines and deal with all the goddamned bureaucracy and checkpoints. There were also a multitude of other practical reasons that it was a good idea.

Getting Germany onto the plane was turmoil unto itself. He was out of sorts from his concussion, and snarlier from being roused. Add to that his agony of having to put weight on all the broken bones Russia dealt him and the blow to his pride he took from needing the unwanted assistance to get him on board and you got one angry Aryan. Once Germany was seated, however, his demeanor collapsed, and he returned to being weary, pallid and even a little green. England had the foresight to provide a pail for the other Nation, and Italy fussed over Germany for the entirety of the trip. Upon landing, France called ahead to make sure a wheelchair was provided for Germany- there would be no place for the words Germany provided when he boarded the plane at his house.

"I'm calling the doctor in to set your bones at my house," France announced once he got Germany into the passenger's seat and himself settled behind the wheel, turning the ignition. "Since you're… not very popular… here at the moment, it would be best for your safety." He braced for the comment he knew was coming.

"Then you'll have me in the privacy of your own home, ja?" Germany slouched himself across the passenger seat, resting his head between the back of the seat and the doorframe, staring out at the battered countryside. "So you don't deny it," he sighed when France failed to respond.

"I'll expect you to help out around the house while you're here," France said, breaking the silence. Germany grunted in acknowledgement. "Nothing too much, while you're still in your casts. Nothing more than you are able."

"You'll be taking full advantage of me as your indentured servant, then."

"It's only fair that you do your part to set things right. Stop acting like a brat." The elder Nation scolded, not taking his eyes off the road. The rest of the drive continued on in relative silence, breaking only when Germany's fractures were jostled and he'd gasp in pain.

At the house, Germany accepted the wheelchair without any open complaint. Since he could barely move his hands for the pain, he laid them lazily in his lap as France wheeled him along. "There are a few spare bedrooms on the-"

"Sofa, bed: I don't care so long as it doesn't involve any flights of stairs," Germany sighed. France's physical house had the good fortune to be spared from the attacks. "How'd you manage to escape the looting?"

"Because all the works I keep are by artists that time forgot. They were all friends of mine, and those are things you cherish more than the rest, non?"

"Ah, I see." Germany braced as he was pushed over the threshold, and then France took him to the nearest parlor. He sprawled out over the empire sofa's horsehair seat, grunting as his stature overreached the frame. Germany grabbed the small throw pillow that rested in the corner and stuffed it underneath his head. After a second of settling, he offered up a hesitant "Danke," and proceeded to rest some more.

France blinked in surprise at his new charge, but smiled and replied with "Je vous en prie."

It wasn't easy, but eventually France did find a doctor who could come out. Should he mention that the patient was German to take off the shock? Flip a coin: if heads… tails. Oh well, France imagined that the doctor should have a good reason to bandage up an enemy. A bottle or two of… he believed that he did have some of the 1882 Merlot left, and there was plenty in the root cellar to feed the man's family for a week, along with the regular pay. Yes; that should do it, given the times.

He set about to making some dinner in the meantime, but nothing rich. Germany was probably still feeling sick from when the plane hit turbulence. And how little Italy mothered his Germany! Even though he was prisoner, he practically demanded that water and a cloth be brought so that he could sponge down Germany's face. Germany himself was willing to lean into the smaller Nation for support, and Italy accepted his weakness openly, muttering lullabies in his native, rolling tongue.

Ah amore!- it is the greatest of all medicine. He sighed at the memory of the young lovers- and wiped a stinging tear from his eye. 'Note to self: don't drift off while in the middle of slicing up onions.' He finished his task and slid the pieces into the stock, and was about to start on the next ingredient when the bell rang.

The doctor was a man of middle years, balding mouse-blonde hair, and a whistle in his speech. He shuffled into the parlor, and roused Germany with a poke to the side and an off-color joke about those stick-in-the-mud Germans.

"Excuse me if I'm not in the mood to laugh," Germany grunted as he rolled himself over. "A little bit of peace and quiet would do nicely, however. I'll trust you not to poison me." He settled back down once again, closed his eyes and tried to relax.

"Pois-shh-on! Oh-ho-ho! I'm a doc-shh-tor, boy! An hones-shh-t man!"

"Hmph."

France left them to their work, he had the feeling the doctor could be trusted, and made sure that the man had seen the generous tip France had scrounged up for him for a job well done. It was going to take a while, and France had a meal to attend to.

It was about a half-hour of stewing to go before the soup would be ready, and the doctor appeared in the kitchen, singing his praises for the aromas coming from the stove. "You wouldn't mind fix-shh-ing us a bourbon for the boy? He's very tolerant for a Nazi. Very tolerant. A better patient than most."

"I'll make some for all of us. We all need it."

"Mmm-hm. Truer words have never been spoken, young man."

England found himself fretting over Italy more than he ever thought possible. He could try to imagine how Germany took the lad's antics in stride, sometimes admiring the man for the amount of composure he had, but that was when Italy was in good health. Now, his new charge was at England's kitchen table with knees drawn up, chewing his thumbnail and shivering from the damp cold.

"Italy…" England started nervously, "you're not scared, are you? We didn't…" he searched for the right words as he poured some hot water into his teapot, "we didn't take you guys so that you'd become our slaves- that's been out of the question for all of us for years now."

The smaller man paused in his nail-biting, and he looked as if there was something he was daring to consider. "I want to be with Germany and Japan and Fratello, and I want for all of us to be friends and be happy," Italy spoke in an uncharacteristically quite voice, "And I want to help my people live with lots of food and make life fun again. And I want to be able to eat again."

At this last statement, England became profoundly aware of the other's knobby knees stretching out the fabric of his uniform, that the nail the Italy gnawed on was dirty and oversized for its skeletal hand, and that Italy's eyes were sunken in and grey-lidded.

England sighed and said, "Perhaps you'd just like some toast and jam for now, no cooking whatsoever. Would that help?"

Italy glanced up at the other Nation and gave a small nod. "Si."

"You can help out later on with the food since it's so important to you."

"Really?"

"Sure! We'll all get this sorted out, together." England poured the tea into the cups he sat out and handed one over to the weaker Nation sitting across from him. Then he stared out the window onto the reaching lawn of his estate. "Come to think of it, my people in the cities don't have much to eat, either, thank to the Blitz."

Italy sipped the tea tentatively, probably because it was the first hot drink- or meal- he had since having completely surrendered and was taken prisoner. His lips were cracked, and Italy both hunched over the drink for warmth, and held it unsteadily in both hands, trying not to burn his fingers. England went about the kitchen, retrieving the jam from the icebox, and slicing some bread (as plain as bread can get), and setting it on the stovetop toaster, which he asked Italy to take care of. He wasn't going to waste any food in this economy, so he put the fate of the meal into the hands of the one who was going to eat it. England pulled something together for himself, much at random, which caused Italy to stop midway in his crunching.

"Is that why your food tastes so bad, England?" he asked, again curled up in his chair. "You're not watching too much what you put together."

"I'm just using up some old food," England said between mouthfuls, "And there's nothing wrong with my cooking, it's not my fault the rest of the world is so picky."

Italy let out a quiet "ve~", finished his bread and tea and said, "You know what, England? Maybe you're not so scary after all. Can Germany and Romano come to visit sometime? I want to see everybody soon."

England blushed at Italy's simpleton words. He was scary, was he? "The bath is two door down the hall on the left. We're still on water rations here, so you can only fill the tub up to the mark I've painted on it, but you do need a good wash."

The other Nation's pallid face brightened up at the thought of a bath. "Really, England? You really are nice!" Italy stepped down off the chair and headed out the door. Although Italy's voice was still horse, England could hear the happiness eek back as his new charge called as he trotted down the hall. "We're all going to be friends one day. I just know it!"

"Take this." Russia dumped the bloody-headed albino he had been carrying fireman-style into Lithuania's arms, who staggered backwards with the undignified heap called Prussia. The giant man turned away and said, "Bandage him up. He has three days for recovery and then he will earn his keep like the rest of you."

"Russia…" Lithuania stammered as he tried to right the larger Nation, "does- does this mean… that the Axis Powers are…?"

"Defeated? Da. Prussia is the one who I am in charge of. He chose his brother over himself. I will see to it that he will not regret his decision." Russia then turned and headed down the hall, leaving the small Baltic to struggle with the unconscious man.

Lithuania dragged Prussia by his upper arms, heels sliding along the floor. He reached the nearest unoccupied bedroom, and hauled him up onto the bed. There he got a good look at the man.

Pale by nature, Prussia's skin had a blue tinge to it, and his breaths were shallow. His pulse was weak, undoubtedly from blood loss. Lifting up one violently bruised and swollen eyelid, then the other, he saw that those red pupils did not match in size. His skull was fractured as Lithuania discovered when he pressed his thumbs across Prussia's scalp. And the man was so cold and clammy…

With difficulty, Lithuania managed to pull back the covers and tuck the larger nation in. Informing Russia that a real doctor was needed was going to be the difficult part, and he hoped that the man would be reasonable. It would be some time before Prussia would wake up.

"Are you hungry? I know I am." America navigated through the crowds of cheering civilians as their loved ones came in off the docks, and Romano clung to the hem of the man's sleeve. Romano didn't snap back as he usually would, but rather said nothing and huddled in a little closer to America's side.

The truth was, Romano was afraid of opening his mouth and letting his heavy accent betray him in a land his people just warred against. That was a surefire way of getting beaten up, maybe even mobbed to death. As much as he hated being with the overpowering Nation, Romano couldn't afford to lose site of him. Getting lost was unthinkable- especially in a strange land like this. How badly he wanted to be invisible and run and hide- but where could he go?

"Here looks good," America announced, turning into a diner. "How 'bout the bar," he headed for it without a thought, but Romano tugged on his sleeve and shook his head "no", motioning to a booth tucked away in a corner. America, seeming to realize Romano's distress for the first time, turned and patted him on the shoulder.

"Alright, if it makes you feel safer, but just remember, the hero is here. Now, I think a real good hamburger would be great right about now," America settled down in one seat and Romano slunk down in the other. "You?" Another shake of the head. "Hmm. Soup of the day is vegetable beef. That fine?" Romano nodded meekly, and America signaled for a waitress.

"Why couldn't you just let me go back to Spain, damn it?" Romano said barely above a whisper. America had no answer.

Canada's house had a simple, rustic feeling that made, Japan decided, welcomed. A fire was already crackling in the hearth, and above it (one of very few things he found disconcerting) was the stuffed and mounted head of a huge moose staring glassy-eyed out into the room.

"Make yourself at home, and I'll make us some coffee," Canada said as he dropped the bags by the front door.

"Yes. Thank you, Canada-san." Japan deliberately chose an old easy chair with deep wings so that he wasn't in eyesight of the moose. It's crushed forest green velveteen upholstery was beginning to get worn through in around the edges and cording. He was, however, rewarded with a splendid wilderness outside the window on the other wall. "Your r-land is very beautiful-r here. It must be very peacefur-l."

"Yes, it is. I like it a lot." The larger Nation's otherwise soft voice carried through the rooms. Japan truly had to agree. It would be a good place to recover. Maybe he could convince Canada not to hang moose heads in the house, too.

"China, this tea you make is very good. I wouldn't mind having more," Austria said, delicately perching the cup in his fingers. He peered over his glasses at his new warden. It was a different culture, yes, but Austria could still see himself settling in quite nicely. There could even be some musical nuances here that could prove useful too.

"Thank you, aru. One day I can teach you how to make it yourself, aru," China replied with a blush.

"That won't be necessary to stress yourself on my part. Besides, you are the master of the craft, and it is not my place to usurp you."

"Aiyah!" China cried. "You really are a freeloader, aru!" Austria ignored the other Nation's outburst.