He wasn't surprised. Not at all. Of course Alfred loved him…them… it was just about time he said it. A smug smile broke across France's face.
"That wasn't so terrible, now was it?" he said, a little teasingly.
"Hmm?" Alfred blinked and put his hands on his hips. "Yes it was."
At that, France pouted. "That hurt, Alfred. You certainly are Arthur's son."
"Don't insult me now," America said, holding back a smile.
"I'm not," France responded matter-of-factly. "I just said that you were related to him. If I had said you cook like him that would be an insult."
America snorted, not so gracefully as his father. "It's probably true, though."
His smile faded when he saw a serious look on France's face.
"What?"
"Alfred."
"Hmm?"
…
"You need to work on your driving skills."
"What? I was in a hurry! Did you want me in a traffic jam with Dad bleeding in the back?!"
"No, I guess not," France smiled mischievously. "You are a better driver than Italy at least. Speaking of Arthur, I need to go check on him. Make sure he hasn't hurt himself again."
"Right, Papa."
He smiled again, and went back to where England was lying on the couch, his face covered with a blanket. "Arthur?"
"Mmm?" Iggy groaned from beneath the covers.
"Still alive, mon amor?"
"Last I checked." His voice was tired.
"Good," France said, sitting down next to his love and gently pulling the blanket away from his messy blonde hair and handsome face. He bent over to give him a soft kiss on the forehead, and whispered: "Je t'aime, Arthur."
England opened his big green eyes and looked up at him. "Je t'aime, Francis, but what was so important I couldn't hear?"
"Nothing, my love."
"That's obviously a lie," his fiancé knew him too well.
"I didn't want to upset you," Francis kissed him and lovingly brushed his bangs away from his eyes.
"Well, I think I already have been today," England responded, wincing when he tried to sit up.
"I didn't want to upset you anymore, love. I needed to speak to Alfred alone. That's all."
"Francis, these bandages look like they need changing," he indicated the gauss wrapped around his shoulder, which had turned bright red with surprisingly fresh blood.
"Yes, they do. Alfred! I need some help with Arthur!" France mumbled under his breath: "So he won't kill me while checking his shoulder…."
England heard him.
"If you be gentle, I won't kill you."
"Why do you need help?" Alfred came in the room.
"Because, I need you to keep him from attacking me. I need to make sure his shoulder isn't getting infected." He kissed England affectionately, like one does a child in their care. This irritated England.
"I'm not going to- Ow! Watch it!" he spat.
"It's alright, love," France said in a soothing voice, removing the bandages, "and better safe than sorry."
"Th-that looks like a lot of blood," Arthur stammered, the fatigue caused by blood loss was showing in the weakness in his voice.
"Shh, love. It's alright," his fiancé said in that irritating parental voice again before turning to whisper in Alfred's ear. "How does it look to you?"
"Well, judging by the way he's acting," America whispered back, "I think he'll live, but…"
"But?"
"Maybe he needs a doctor?"
"Can we risk going to get a doctor with Russia out there?"
"I will."
"Why are you two whisperi—" England budged in, "ouch…"
"Hush, love. Just rest," France patted his head and turned back to Alfred. "No! Not while he's out there!" he hissed. "There has to be something else that we could do!"
"What else?" America whispered back. "I'll be fine, I've gotten out of worse."
"Are you sure? There's no other options?" his father pushed, a crack of worry in his voice. "Alfred."
"Do you have any ideas?"
France sighed.
"No. Just be careful."
"I will." America grinned heroically. "I couldn't just stay here and risk his and my new little brother's life," he paused and his face turned serious, "but I'm not stupid. Unless something happens, I'll wait til morning. Just keep an eye on him."
France submitted, and bent back down to clean his fiancé's wound. "Arthur?"
"What?"
"What exactly happened when the knife stabbed you? Could you tell where it came from?" France mumbled: "If Russia was in my house then that's a problem we'll have to fix immediately."
"It flew through the door," Arthur recounted, surprised France had missed that. Then, giving another wince he turned more serious. "Francis…. Don't think I'm ignorant to what you and Al were discussing a minute ago."
"W-what are you talking about?" his partner stuttered.
"Francis…" England forced a smile. "Do you really think I'll let a bunch of Russians take me out?"
France gently rested a hand on his cheek.
"No, my love, I don't. But, I will not lose someone I love again. Not when there is a chance to save them," he said tenderly, before leaning over to kiss him. "I love you too much to take that risk."
"I know." Damn, that was a turn on. Arthur grabbed him around the neck kissed him passionately, refusing to let go. France was overjoyed at this, naturally; he allowed himself to be lost in the pleasure of kissing his fiancé. His lips tasted of a bold assam tea and scones, but France didn't mind. He just loved to feel England's touch… Suddenly, France squealed. A jolt of lighting had abruptly shocked through his body, entering at his right buttock. "AH!"
"Fuck-king?" the big, round, red eyes of America's alien friend were staring down at him from the back of the couch. A taser stick was crackling in his hand.
"ALFRED!"
"What? What? What?" America shouted, rushing in to see what was wrong.
"Tony! Keep him away from me!" France shrieked in his cowardly French voice. He turned and whispered to England. "Why does he hate me?"
Alfred sighed. "Tony, I told you to leave them alone. I got some new horror video games up in my room. Go on."
"Bichi!" the little green alien yelled—throwing his hands up in the air—and hurried up the stairs.
"Why does he enjoy ruining moments?" France asked with a whine. "What did I do?"
England laughed and began to happily snog him again, but France, surprisingly (and possibly a sign of an impending apocalypse), pushed him away.
"I honestly can't believe I'm saying this, but not now, Arthur."
England couldn't take it. He busted out laughing. His fiancé, FRANCE actually thought he was turning him down for sex. He laughed so hard his wound began to sting again, and he had to jerk his hand to hold his shoulder. "Ow..."
"And that's why, darling."
"That ow was from laughing too hard," England said chuckling, trying and failing to stop laughing. "Ouch. Besides, did you think I was going farther? We're in your son's house."
"He's your son too. And no, I know you won't go any farther, but why make it harder for me to stop?"
England smiled a loving smile. "Francis, you're pathetic."
"No, mon amor," France answered and kissed him softly, "just pathetically in love."
"And poetic. Why I can't stand your movies," England was dumb enough to laugh again. "Ow! Dammit."
"I know my movies suck. But my cooking is better."
"Let's not turn this into a competition, now."
"As you wish. But I'd still win," France smiled teasingly.
"Yeah, you always do."
"I haven't heard any gunshots in a while," France changed the subject. "Is Russia dead yet?"
"Probably floating just outside reach," Arthur answered. He yawned, but the effort made him wince again.
"Unfortunately," France sighed. "How the hell did this happen?"
"I…. don't know…" How the hell did this happen? What the hell was with those Russians?
"Damn Russia."
"Yeah," England was too tired to question it much further. "It's late," he said, "are you sleeping with me?"
A slick, pervy smile slid across the Frenchman's face. "If you want me to," he said in a playful voice.
"I meant on the couch." Unamused.
France gave an over exaggerated sigh. "Fine."
"What? You'd prefer ditching me for a bed?"
"No. But we could move you to a bed where you would be more comfortable."
"Sounds painful. Besides," a similarly slick smile slid across the Englishman's face, "a bed has more room."
"I know," Francis smiled.
"Come on, Frog." England scooted over to give him room and smiled as his fiancé curled up close to him and wrapped his arms around his waist. As the night grew darker the two slowly fell asleep, squeezed close together on that couch, perfectly content.
The next morning, Alfred quietly crept down the stairs just as the early morning sun slowly began to cast its gentle light through the windows of the living room below. In the hazy golden light, he could make out the image of his parents entwined on the couch. He spazed, shutting he eyes tight. "They're wearing clothes, right?" Alfred whispered before letting one eye slide open. He sighed with relief. France and England were both fast asleep, squeezed on the couch in the same clothing they had been wearing the previous day. "Yes. Whew," he breathed, and silently slipped out the front door and away from his house. An ungraceful snore spattered out of France's French nasal passages
The sun rose higher in the sky, and its light shone brighter through Alfred's living room windows. England slowly began to wake up as the morning light slowly reached over his eyelids. The first thing he became aware of was the feeling of France's hand wrapped around his stomach. Still half asleep, he smiled and moved to touch it. But when he moved a surge of pain shot through him and he realized he had been stupid enough to use his injured left arm. Instinctively, England jerked in a desperate attempt to find a position that would relieve his pain, and… "Oh, sorry, Francis." He had accidentally sent France flailing off the side of the couch.
France jerked awake with a start and glared up at Iggy, golden crusty gound sat in his sleepy blue eyes.
"Ouch," England rubbed his shoulder. "Sorry, sorry." Despite the pain, it was hard not to laugh.
"You know I love you, Arthur," France sighed, "but sometimes I wonder how this happened."
England laughed, but did not respond, and France stood up to check his bandages.
"How are you feeling now?" he asked.
"Like I'm missing a few gallons of blood. I wonder why."
"We need to change the bandages again. You'd think it would eventually stop bleeding."
"I probably need more than just bandages," Arthur pointed out before looking around inquisitively. "Speaking of which, it's getting late, where's Alfred?"
"I-I don't know," France stammered as the reality of how much trouble he was going to be in began to descend upon him. "He… He didn't," he bullshited. "The bastard snuck off while we were asleep."
His fiancé turned on him, his eyes boring suspicion into him like emerald lasers.
The poor Frenchman was overwhelmed by anxieties: worry for Alfred, and fear of Iggy. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that, Arthur," he whined. "I told him not to leave."
"What?!" England gasped in rage. "He left?! With psychos out there?!"
"I told him not to! I tried to stop him, Arthur! I swear!"
"Ouch," England muttered. His yelling had strained his injury. "What's he doing?!"
"Going to get a doctor, probably."
"So he risked his life for me," England stated angrily. "Why does that idiot always have to play the hero?"
"He is the hero, love," France answered and kissed him gently. "He wants you to be proud of him, and he feels useless just sitting around not being able to do anything."
"He's an idiot," England pouted, "and he better get back so I can beat that ego out of him."
"You will not! Can you not just appreciate what he's doing for you?"
Arthur looked away, saying nothing. It worried France when he did that.
"Arthur? Love, please."
"I appreciate what he's doing," he said through gritted teeth, "he's just being an idiot."
"I know. But he's trying, love."
England sighed.
"Trying not to be a complete moron? Gosh, I wonder how long he's been gone."
"It couldn't have been too long. He'll be fine, Arthur."
"He better be," he pouted.
"Did you know that you're adorable when you pout?" Francis said with a smile.
His fiancé tried to glare, but he ended up merely looking more adorable. He laughed, and couldn't resist giving him a kiss.
"Ouch! Cut it out, Frog!" tears randomly welled up in England's big green eyes.
"What's wrong, love?" France asked, softly kissing him again.
Arthur realized what had happened and quickly wiped the tears away. "Nothing." Stupid hormones.
"Alright," his partner sighed. "Just try to rest until he gets back."
"Yeah," England gave a dry laugh, "that won't be easy."
Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. The two of them jumped when they heard what sounded like an exchange of blows, and all of a sudden, Alfred came thrusting through the front door, slamming it behind him and leaning back against it. He was a little beaten up and breathing heavy.
"Alfred! Thank God!" Iggy cried.
"Alfred! What happened to you?" Francis demanded.
America continued breathing heavy for a few moments after their demands had subsided; then, he gave an exasperated laugh and looked up at them with a crooked smile.
"I don't think we'll have to worry about him anymore," America said in an arrogantly American voice, holding up the crudely decapitated head of a sunflower.
"What did you do?" France asked. "And why the hell did you run off?"
"You know where I went. And when he tried to catch me on my way back, I just showed Ol' Mother F'in Russia who's boss," America smiled and twirled the sunflower head.
"But why?" France pushed, frantic. "And what did it accomplish? You scared off Russia, but Arthur's nearly used all the bandages I can find, and he's still bleeding!"
"Huh? Oh," America blinked and opened the door, revealing a short, irritated French doctor standing there. "My bad, dude."
His father's arms twitched, as he found it hard not to strangle him for his idiocy.
America looked at him innocently. "You okay?"
"Do I look okay?" grimaced France.
"I better get well paid for going through all of that!" the doctor bursted out angrily.
"We will pay you whatever the hell we want as soon as Arthur is no longer in danger," he glared.
America frantically pulled him aside. "Shush. It wasn't easy finding a capable doctor willing to fight past Russia."
"Alright. Fine," France whispered, watching as the doctor began to tend to Iggy. "Alfred, I swear if you ever do something like this again…."
"Do what?" his son asked. "Help Dad and get Russia off our backs? I don't see your problem. And don't worry about the doctor, we're countries, we can pay him… Well, you can. I'm in debt, and the ceiling's rising," Alfred gave a "shit happens" laugh and put a hand on France's shoulder. "Well, hope you brought your checkbook."
"Alfred," France sighed and rubbed his temple. "Just be careful. Please."
"I'm fi—" he nonchalantly lifted his hand to cover a cut on his face. "I'm fine."
"I'm already worried enough, Alfred." Francis moved his hand and gently ran his thumb over the cut. "Je t'aime, fils."
America quickly looked away. "Yeah, yeah."
France smiled at his son's uncharacteristic shyness. "Would you go wake Matthew up?" he asked.
"He's still asleep?! Gah, Matthew!" America said with surprised and escaped upstairs.
He smiled and watched him go before going to watch over his fiancé. "How is he?"
"I don't know yet," the doctor responded. "Just let me run some tests."