Lines became mountains and fell again to plains on the monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
America stood beside Russia's sleeping form, watching his chest rise slowly and fall slowly. He seemed so peaceful now, so disconnected from the storms of society and the people who caused them.
That peacefulness only brought back vengeful memories covered with ice.
America closed her eyes and swallowed, a burning feeling sliding and sticking down her throat. The film of her mind became covered with white snow and gray skies.
The year had been 1991, when the Soviet Union's house of cards had come tumbling down off the playing table. Eastern Europe had rebelled. The Cold War was finally simmering down, as Russia was losing influence fast and gaining scrutiny quickly. America had flown out to the enormous country herself, just to find her defeated rival.
She found Russia lying in the snow.
She knelt down and touched his forehead. It was burning with fever and defeat. Snowflakes clung to his pale eyelashes, and his eyes had turned whiter than even those.
They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, saying nothing.
Then, she had leaned down and kissed him.
Through the taste of sickness and ashes, she could feel his desperation and loss; how badly he wanted someone, anyone, to tell him it was going to be alright. That the pain would end.
He tried to scoot closer, but as soon as he did, she pulled away from him. America smiled ruefully and whispered to him but two words:
"I won."
She stood up and walked away, feeling his eyes bore into her back. And that was the last she ever saw of Soviet Russia.
Sometimes, she thought how things could have gone differently. Maybe she could've lingered a few moments longer; helped him up onto his feet. That hadn't occurred to her. At that time, she was bitter because of everything he had done. How many nights she had labored to keep him at bay. How many times he tried to knock her down. She felt a deep, burning hate towards that smiling face.
And she was sure Russia felt likewise.
The door to Russia's room opened. Spain, Italy, Prussia, and France flounced in, looking slightly out of it.
"Why zhank you, nurse! We won't disappoint you-," France called out the door in a singsong voice.
"We heard what happened, bella," Italy stared at the bandages on Russia's head. "Russia got hit by a car, right?"
America nodded grimly.
A man in a sterile-looking coat and deep creases by his eyes strolled in. Everyone looked at him expectantly.
"I'm Doctor Greene. Your friend here had some pretty deep head wounds and bruises. There was some internal bleeding too. We got 'im patched up. I think he'll be good as new in a few days, but there will be some scarring. He's just lucky to be alive."
Damn straight he is, America said to herself.
She went outside; felt a cool evening breeze cross the town. America walked to Main Street and took a seat on the outdoor patio of her favorite grill (which had been in business since 1945), and ordered a burger.
"America! I mean, Amelia!" Italy ran up to the patio, waving wildly. "You left so quickly after we came! Are you still going with us?"
"I'm going to have to take a pass on that," America replied. "Something…came up."
The excitable little Italian nodded earnestly.
"I understand, bella. I will just tell France, Spain, and Prussia that you had to go at the last minute.
"Thanks, dude." Italy was already skipping away.
America leaned back in her chair. In that hospital, staring at Russia's blood-drained face, she had felt a pang in the back of her gut. Almost like…pity.
She laughed silently. Russia wouldn't want her pity, and she wouldn't want his.
They were enemies, and that was how she liked it.
A/N: Russia-centric chapter, because we all love him. Don't worry, we'll get back to normal stuff next chapter. I'm busy, so this may not update for a while. Comments? Criticism?
