December 22nd

9:03 p.m.

Author's Note: Warning- This chapter made me hungry, it may have a similar effect on you.

The inevitable had become reality. Arthur Kirkland had awoken at the crack of dawn with the chills, and found himself lying in bed with a high fever. And, naturally, his host, who lacked any sort of nutrition and immunity whatsoever, woke up refreshed and rejuvenated. How typical.

Arthur lay in bed, the thick winter quilt wrapped around his slight, shivering frame. His muscles ached something horrible, and his whole body chilled to the bone. His breathing traveled in and out of his lungs through his slightly parted lips, which were beginning to dry from the constant transfer of air. The Englishman's nostrils were stuffed full of unmentionable gunk, and his head felt heavy as a lead block. His emerald eyes had lost their bright luster, and now shone dully with drowsiness. All in all, he appeared a mess, a frazzled mess.

"Mornin', Iggy," Alfred said, keeping his voice quiet (which, for him, sounded more even-leveled with most people's) as he shut the bedroom door behind him, a tray nestled into his hands. "I brought you some soup. I managed to find some in the basement. "

"I dun' want yer gd-fersakin' sup," were the terms that Arthur murmured into his pillow, which was now drenched and drowning in his sweat. He gave a little groan, turning his head to stare blankly at the tray.

"Don't worry; it's not stagnant or anything. Well, I'll just leave it here, then." The American placed the steaming bowl upon the nightstand, allowing the fumes to flow forward to the Briton in mockery. Sure, the soup smelled something wondrous, but actually grasping the spoon and raising his arm enough to bring the utensil to his lips would just take too much effort on his part. "Alright, open up!"

"What are ya-" His muffled voice was abruptly interrupted by a long thermometer forcing itself past his dry lips and into his mouth.

Alfred held it in his left hand, rolling his eyes. "Um, you're supposed to put it under your tongue."

"I know that you-!" Arthur sat up hastily, instantaneously gasping as the room began to haze and a sudden head-rush came over him. "Ugh…" Upon lying back down begrudgingly, he snatched the battery-powered thermometer from Alfred's hand and stuck it under his tongue. After a few brief seconds, it began to beep, and the American whisked it swiftly out of his guest's mouth.

"Yep, you still have a pretty substantial fever," he muttered, clearing the screen. Setting it gently down beside the bowl of soup, he picked up the last item sitting on the tray; a large white bottle overflowing with fever-reducers. "Take two of these, every eight hours. I'm just a phone call away if you're desperate."

"Like I'd eber be dat desberate," he retorted, reaching over for the medicine and popping the cap off, placing a few on the back of his tongue and swallowing. Arthur sunk slowly back into the comfort of the sheets, turning away from his host. "Jus' go."

"Right, right," he said, opening the door and exiting the room.

At last… honestly, I think he makes this illness ten times worse! The Englishman thought bitterly, leaning back against the soft embrace of the feather pillow as he desperately attempted to sit upright.

"Oh, Arthur?" Alfred's head shot back into the bedroom, peering around the corner.

"Now what?"

"Want any fast food while I'm out?"

The American, appropriately, received a blow to the head by a thrown water bottle, rubbing his head and leaving the room again. Arthur heard the distant noise of the front door opening and slamming shut, and resumed the upright position, bringing the warm bowl of soup to nestle in his lap comfortably, the spoon tucked between his right index finger and his middle finger. Gingerly, he clutched the eating utensil and dipped it slowly into the golden broth, scooping a few of the stringy noodles and a bite of chicken. He brought it up to his lips, blew on it slightly, in no mood whatsoever to burn his mouth, and dipped his head back, allowing the soup to trickle down his throat and spread heat throughout his chilled body. Chicken noodle, huh? Probably boiled a can of it. Admittedly, with the poor eating habits of his former colony, the Briton found it increasingly difficult to picture Alfred actually cooking anything from scratch. The very inquiry about it seemed a bit skeptical.

Slurp after graceful slurp, Arthur polished off the soup within a matter of minutes, blissfully enjoying the warming sensation it triggered within him. Accompanying the heat provided by this nourishment was a sense of drowsiness, a lingering exhaustion overtaking his mind. He placed the bowl, all but licked clean, atop the nightstand and curled beneath the covers, burying his face into the two-pillow stack supporting his head. Thankfully, Alfred had had some sort of host-like manners, and lent one of his pillows to the guest. Undeniably, Arthur had expected the pillow to reek of burger grime or revolting coffee beans or worse. However, much to his pleasant surprise, it stank of neither coffee nor soda pop, but of laundry detergent. At least the Englishman could rest assured that his former colony did his laundry and kept sanitary.

Inhaling one last time, overwhelmed in both the scent of the pillow and of the empty bowl of chicken noodle soup, he closed his eyes peacefully and rested.

********

December 22nd

2:21 p.m.

He awoke with a jolt, being forcefully tugged from his sickness-induced nightmares and back into reality. He brought up a hand to rub the sleep from his green eyes, a deep yawn escaping his chest. Much to the Briton's amazement, he felt rather… reborn. His body no longer ached, and the only cold to grace his body was the numbing cold from the wintery landscape outside. At least the fever seems to have broken, for now… he thought, sitting upright and stretching his stiffening back muscles. Judging by the eerie silence of the estate, he assumed that his host was still out shopping, buying his groceries and whatnot. His stomach began to growl threateningly. Perhaps Alfred has some more of that soup lying around…

Ever-so-carefully, Arthur rose from the bed, still clad in his green pajamas and a white robe, and clambered down the hallway towards the kitchen. He felt his gaze avert to the stove, which created a safe haven for a sizeable pot of soup. Strewn across the countertops were various cooking items, from chopped noodles to salt-shakers to whisks. Wow, he really made a mess… surely he didn't concoct this from scratch?

Shrugging his shoulders, the Englishman poured himself another bowl, sitting down in the couch and proceeding to feed himself. Regardless of where it came from, or what, he feared, it was made out of, the soup was astoundingly well-flavored and seasoned. He continued to mentally note himself about the food, relaxing his tense shoulders and releasing a content sigh.

"Ow!" Arthur flinched suddenly, staring in alarm as the fireplace let out a shriek of pain. Silence followed. Perfect, now the illness was making him hallucinate and hear things…

Again, a noise disrupted the silence of the nearly-lifeless household, the sound of pounding coming from the chimney. Now, really, what are the chances of it being Father Christmas? he wondered, slightly sarcastic, and placed his bowl on the floor beside the leg of the sofa. Suspecting the worst, he snatched a butter knife from the countertop, readily preparing for the burglar's entrance. More silence ensued. Arthur lowered the knife slightly, his stance relaxing a bit.

A flash of motion shot before the ill Englishman's eyes, and before he realized just what exactly he was doing, Arthur had the criminal pinned to the ground, butter knife at their throat. "Alright, you felon, explain yourself!" He observed the hoodlum warily, coming across a few traits that struck him as familiar, and his face instantly fell.

"Arthur, what on earth are you doing?" spoke the trespasser. The Briton froze, disturbed and horrified, as he recognized the perpetrator.

"A-Alfred? What- Why…? Why the blazes would you sneak into your own house?" His face pricelessly revealed his flabbergasted soul.

"I forgot the house key, and I figured you would be sleeping, so I couldn't knock." Alfred's face, caked with soot, captured the slightest crimson tint. "Now, can you please get off of me?"

It took Arthur quite some time to fully comprehend the situation. The Englishman had "the criminal" pinned to the carpet, holding him down with a death grip. It was what many would refer to as a "compromising position", to put it formally. Clearing his throat and coughing once, twice, Arthur released his hold on Alfred and stood, turning away from the idiotic man. He bent down, grabbed his half-empty soup bowl, and rushed into the bedroom, fearfully veiling his bright red face form his former colony. He would never be able to let himself live this one down…

Back in the family room, Alfred scratched the back of his head, all but clueless about the events that had just occurred. "Wonder if I should've brought him back a cappuccino after all…" Clearly, something had been bothering his guest, and he seemed determined to hide it.

But Alfred, though heroic and curious, merely shrugged it off. He'll tell me when he feels I need to know, I guess… Now, which should I give Iggy, the hamburger or the cheeseburger…? The American felt greatly flustered, his mind being rather indecisive. The cheeseburger had the bonus of American cheese, yet with the hamburger, the taste wasn't masked by the flat dairy product… Why did the decision have to be so accursedly difficult?!

And poor England felt his fever returning.

A/N: … I'm beginning to feel really strong pity towards Iggy… aww! Ah well, such misery and misfortune is necessary for the production of this fanfic. This one was slightly less Christmassy…