Dro: I added a twist to this chapter I hadn't been planning. But I like it much better now. So review and tell me you do too.

Chapter Summary: Alfred grows accustomed to being with both brothers on a regular basis. But just as he adjusts, something happens that tests his will as well as his morals.

Warnings: Violence, Language

Disclaimer: Dro still doesn't own APH. Seriously. I don't. If only...

Alfred tapped his fingers against the windowsill. His arms were hurting less and less everyday, his fingers regaining their fine motor functions, his legs feeling stronger and stronger as each day passed by. It would be a while before he could move normally again. He would need a lot of physical therapy to properly stretch the skin on his burnt legs. It would hurt, but he didn't particularly care about the pain. He'd faced so much of it at this point that it had become meaningless to him. He would get through any hardships he had to, as long they got him home in the end. Getting back on his feet was just step one.

The sound of spritely footsteps caught his ears, and he knew Gilbert was here. The brothers tended to switch off now—randomly, so as to not arouse suspicion, of course—and Alfred only knew who was coming when they got here. He could tell who they were by footsteps alone. Ludwig's steps were heavy and refined, repetitive and monotonous, strong and determined. Gilbert's footsteps were swift and light, sneaky and devious, hesitant and uncertain. Gilbert, despite his apparent brashness and recklessness, was actually a unnaturally cautious person. Even though Alfred couldn't see him, he could almost feel Gilbert scrutinizing the room every time he walked, almost like he was searching for an enemy hidden among the furniture.

He wondered if the man was like this everywhere, wearing a façade of pure arrogance and rashness that covered a deeply intelligent and guarded man. His guess was "probably," if Ludwig's stories about his brother's behavior were true. Gilbert was an ass of a man sometimes. He teased and played pranks and intimidated others. He was rude beyond all reason. But Alfred was still coming to like the man even through all that. He and Alfred had one very important thing in common: they adored their brothers. They talked a lot about their respective siblings over lunch and dinner. Gilbert told stories of the childhood shenanigans that Ludwig and him used to get involved in when they were younger. Alfred responded with stories of own, and the two laughed at how both sets of brothers were such young delinquents.

Today, Gilbert walked in with his typical entrance. "Hey, kid! I have arrived!"

"I know, Gilbert." He chuckled. "I heard you when you walked in the door."

He scoffed. "You are too perceptive, you know that?" He set something on the floor. "Forget your eyesight. You should try and hone your hearing. It could come in handy some day."

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to. I mean, I can't exactly live on touch alone for the rest of my life."

Gilbert nodded. "Vhen you can valk again, ve'll vork on it, ja?"

Alfred snorted at Gilbert's accent. His was even worse than Ludwig's. He cut himself off, feeling Gilbert's playful glare.

"You are making fun of my voice again, ja?"

"I'm sorry. It's just funny to hear you speak English. Your accent is too thick."

"Tch, vhy does that matter? I am understandable, right?"

"Barely." Alfred mumbled under his breath.

"I heard that!" Gilbert retorted. They were silent for two seconds. Then they both burst out laughing. "Ah, kid, let me go make you food. Be back in a few minutes."

He left the room still chuckling. Alfred listened to him go, smiling to himself. Gilbert had been coming for over a week now, and the more he stayed, the more Alfred warmed up to him. Ludwig would always ask him if Gilbert was treating him properly, and Gilbert would always ask him if Ludwig was still being "his usual uptight self," to which the answer was, of course, always, "yes." The brothers were quite different, and it made Alfred itch to know their history. All he knew was what they were from a small town, their father wasn't in the picture, and apparently, at some point, something tragic had happened to Ludwig that had made him partial to Alfred's situation. Of course, Alfred had no clue just what that tragic event was. Neither brother seemed to want to open up about it, so Alfred hadn't dared to ask them directly.

Gilbert creaked his way back up the noisy old stairs about half an hour later, slipping back inside the room with some kind of delicious smelling sandwich. "You should really like this, kid. Special wurst, I made this vith." He sat the plate next to Alfred, who had nearly become completely self-sufficient when it came to eating now. The only things he still had trouble with were soups. He felt for the sandwich, picked it up, and took a large bite. It was delicious.

"Mm. It's really good."

"Vell, of course it is! I made it."

Alfred rolled his eyes beneath his bandages. They'd stopped hurting a few days ago, and Alfred had finally been able to sleep without feeling them jolt with pain whenever he dared to twitch them. Granted, he still couldn't see anything out of them. Ludwig had changed his bandages the day prior, but the world around him was still a black abyss. It would more than likely always be that way, he knew, but no matter how much he assured himself that, a spark of hope still ignited whenever the bandages came off.

He ate and joked and laughed with Gilbert, wondering silently how it was he'd come to trust this Nazi and his brother. They were supposed to be enemies. They were supposed to have eternal animosity between the—eternal, of course, being until the end of the war. But something had worn away in him after days and days of this, some barrier that held that hatred in place. Without it, the loathing of the two brothers had dissipated, and he was left with something he dared to call a budding friendship. Three people like them, two SS officers and an American pilot were not supposed to anything close to friends, but Alfred felt it was inevitable now. He could try and keep his American "ideals" in the forefront all he wanted, but there was no way on Earth he could stop himself from seeing these two people as his friends. Not when they were caring for him like this. Not when they were risking themselves like this.

He reached out absentmindedly for his water and was surprised to find nothing there. He waved his hand around, feeling the air for his glass. "Ah, Gilbert, have my recent spacial skills degraded, or is my water not on the nightstand?"

"Huh? Oh! Sorry, kid. I forgot it. Let me go get some." He rose from his chair and quickly shuffled down the stairs and into what Alfred assumed was a kitchen. He hadn't been to the lower level of the house yet. Ludwig was afraid he wasn't ready to travel that far. He shook his head. Who would've though that, just a few weeks ago, traveling down a set of steps would be far to him? Then again, when he'd first woken up, the bathroom was far. He still needed to be carried there, of course, because of his legs, but he could sit up and maneuver his torso enough to do his business by himself, which was the way he much preferred it to be done.

He tapped his finger absently on his comforter-covered and bandaged legs, hoping silently that he would continue to heal quickly so he could get back on his feet. It would be several months before he could do very much, he knew. He would have to painfully stretch his still-healing skin in addition to regaining all the strength he'd lost from being bedridden. It was going to be a long and tedious journey, but he would make it to the end. He brushed the bandages over his eyes. He wouldn't lie, he was really worried about the blindness. He was still determined to get along in life even with this new disability, but that didn't change the fact that it stripped him of many of things he loved. He wasn't going to get to see the world again. That had been his biggest dream, traveling around the world by airplane, stopping in all the exotic places, seeing the sights, meeting the people. That was a dashed dream now. He couldn't even fly a plane, much less see the things he wanted to. He ran a hand through his still painfully short hair and sighed.

A loud crash made him jump, and he cursed as it pulled on the burnt skin of his back. He bit his lip, listening for more sounds. What the hell had that been? Was someone breaking in? A bomb? Were they caught? A flash of fire flickered in the corner of his mind, but he pushed it back. This isn't the time to get lost in that hell again.

"Gilbert?"

No answer.

"Gilbert!" He yelled louder. What if someone had broken in and hurt Gilbert? It could be anyone from thieves to other SS. He gripped the sheets, waiting for someone to burst into the room guns blazing or stab him to death. But no one ever came. He must've waited ten minutes. He heard absolutely nothing. A pin hitting the floor would've sounded like a drum beat in this silence. "Gilbert?" He tried one last time, but he got the same silent response.

What did he do? What could he do? He was an invalid with severe burns on much of his body. He couldn't even walk. Then again, he hadn't tried. Ludwig refused to let him until his burns had healed more. He swallowed nervously. This was going to be painful. Sucking in a deep breath, he pulled the covers off his legs, exposing them to the cool air in the room. He wore nothing except a pair of underwear and an oversized button-up shirt. Easy access for cleaning his wounds. Not to mention pants would've aggravated the his legs with the constant rubbing. Slowly, he moved his legs, wincing at the dull stinging sensation. He pulled them over the side of the bed, lowering them slowly to the floor. He almost recoiled when his feet brushed the cold wooden panels. It was the first time he'd felt the ground with his own two feet since the crash.

And that was the easy part. He wasn't even sure his legs could hold his weight, much less balance him enough to get him downstairs. He gripped the sheets tightly, encouraging himself. "You can do this." He whispered out loud. He went for it, pushing himself to his feet. Immediately, he lost any sense of balance. Luckily, his nightstand was right besides them, and he used it to keep him standing. He let out a sigh of relief. It would have really hurt if he had hit the floor. He tested his legs out, wincing as each bend of his knees and stretch of his muscles sent jolts of pain surging through the limbs. "Bear it. You can bear it. You've felt worse." A lot worse.

But then there was a problem. If he couldn't walk without something to lean on, he would have to maneuver around the room using the walls and furniture. Not a problem if he actually knew where everything was. But he didn't. He could potentially run into a thousand different objects and hurt himself. He shook the doubt out of his head. Gilbert could have been hurt. He might have needed help. Alfred didn't miss the irony of him wanting to help a Nazi. With one last breath, he started stumbling his way around the room, leaning on the wall, a second window, a wardrobe, the wall again, and finally, the doorframe. He paused, trying to recall which way the stairs were. He took a right, pretty convinced that was the direction that Ludwig and Gilbert always came from. He felt his way cautiously around, reaching out his foot and making sure the floor was still there before stepping down. If he fell down the stairs and managed not to break his neck, he doubted he would be getting back up.

Finally, he felt the first drop of the steps. This part was really going to hurt. He had to bend one knee and lower the other leg down, stretching his injured muscles. He whimpered at the sharp pains, but he forced himself to keep going. He went down five steps, ten, fifteen, praying they ended soon because he wasn't sure he could keep going much longer. When he felt the floor, he wanted to drop down and kiss it, but he knew if he did that, he probably wouldn't be able to get back up, so instead, he kept going. Instead of just blindly looking around in rooms, he leaned into to each one and felt around for something kitchen-like, which was where he assumed Gilbert was because that was where the man had been going, right? And if Alfred hadn't tripped over his unconscious (or dead…) body in the hallway, then that's where he must still be, right?

He leaned into one room and felt around, his bandaged hand coming into contact with something that felt suspiciously like a counter top. Success! He managed the last few feet into the room and leaned himself against the counter, listening for the sounds of…well, anything. But he heard nothing. Nothing at all.

"Gilbert?" He murmured, confused. He hadn't felt any drafts, so he didn't think there was a window broken. But if it hadn't been a window, then what had it been? He breathed in deeply, his body already exhausted from a simple trip down a single flight of stairs. God, he had gotten weak. He moved forward a bit, one of his feet sliding across the tiled floor. He recoiled sharply as something painfully dug into his foot. "Ah!" He hissed in pain. He grimaced tightly as he brought his foot up, feeling his toes for the damage. His finger brushed what must have been blood and something hard that was lodged in his big toe. Clenching his teeth, he pulled it out quickly. "Mmphf!" He bit back a yelp of pain, feeling a trail of blood begin to rush down the contours of his feet.

"What the hell was that?" He carefully felt he object. Small, jagged, sharp, and hard. Glass. He'd stepped on a piece of glass. But there wasn't a draft. He was sure of it. He couldn't feel the air from outside. So it wasn't from a window. Then where? He felt around the counter, hoping to find…there! He picked up the rag, folding it over and over until he had a square the size of his hand. He composed himself. This was going to hurt. A lot. He lowered himself to his knees, feeling his damaged eyes burn with tears as he desperately tried to hold back his screams. The muscles in his legs felt like they were being ripped apart. But somehow, he made it all the way down without falling. After he recovered from nearly a minute of intense shaking and gasping, he dared to reach forward slowly with one hand, feeing for the start of the glass he was sure littered the floor. He found it.

He took the rag and brushed the glass out of his path, crawling slowly forward, cringing each time his knees moved a few inches. He did this for several minutes, meticulous and slow, feeling around for anything out of the ordinary. Then his hand bumped something soft. He froze. What was…? He brushed his fingers against it, fear shooting through his haggard body. Hair. A head. Someone's head. His fingers trailed across the man's head until they came into contact with something warm and wet. Blood.

He jumped, his hand unintentionally jerking to the left, hitting a wooden structure. "Ah!" He yelled as a dull throbbing pain worked its way through his hand. What the hell was that? He felt the wooden structure again, realizing it didn't belong there. It moved if he pushed it. He felt around it. Rectangular. And there was a gap in the front. No. A door. But it was open. No, it was broken. It was some kind of cabinet with a glass panel in the front. And it had fallen off the walls of this no doubt ancient farmhouse.

And hit Gilbert right in the head. "Fuck." He whispered, immediately going back to Gilbert's unconscious body. He pressed his fingers against the man's neck. He was still breathing and had a pulse, thankfully, but the wound on his temple was still oozing blood, and Alfred doubted he would be waking up anytime soon. What was he going to do? What if Gilbert was more than just knocked out? What if he needed medical attention? Alfred had no way to contact anyone. How long would it be before Ludwig came looking for him if Gilbert didn't return? Knowing the brothers' relationship, Ludwig probably wouldn't notice anything awry for several hours since Gilbert tended to go off on his own a lot.

"Fuck." He whispered again. This was bad. How badly was Gilbert bleeding? He felt the man's wound again. It was still bleeding considerably. He reached up blindly, groping for a drawer. He pulled out one and tucked his fingers over the side, praying there were more dishtowels in it. No luck. He felt for the next one. "Yes!" He grabbed as many as he could without having to stand up, sitting them on his knee so they wouldn't get glass on them. He paused. He needed some water to wash the excess blood off. How would he get to the sink? He didn't even know where it was. And since there was glass everywhere…

"Wait…" He rose slightly, ignoring the screaming in his knees, and felt around on the counter, finding the edge of the sink, and right next to it was…a glass of water. Alfred felt mildly guilty. Of course, he couldn't have anticipated that a cabinet would fall of the wall and knock one of his caretakers out, but this had happened because Gilbert had gone to get him water. He snatched the glass of the counter and dabbed one of the cloths in it, wiping the blood off Gilbert's face. He assumed he got most of it. It wasn't like he could see it.

He moved himself slightly forward and picked up Gilbert's head, resting it on his lap. Then he took a dry cloth, folded it, and pressed against the man's wound, holding pressure there lightly. He hoped to God Ludwig would get suspicious and come by. If Gilbert's head injury was bad enough, he could…Alfred shook his head. Stay calm. He fidgeted more with every passing minute, hoping something would happen. "Wake up, Gilbert. Please." He just wanted a sign the man would be all right. It would've helped if he could actually see the man's fucking injury, but no! It would've helped if he could actually get up, pick Gilbert up, and take him somewhere for help, but no! No, Alfred was a weak, injured, blind invalid stuck in enemy territory. He cursed himself again and again. It was bad enough he was no longer able to help his country, but he couldn't even return the generous favors of his saviors.

So instead, he just sat there on the hard tile floor, cloth pressed again Gilbert's head, silent and still, waiting and waiting and waiting for the situation to change somehow. Because he had lost the ability to change it himself.

Dro: I'm somewhere between "Oh noes! Alfred, don't lose hope!" and "LOLs! A cabinet fell on Gilbert!"

Next Chapter: Alfred waits anxiously for Ludwig to arrive, fearing Gilbert might be deteriorating in his arms. Ludwig, on the other hand, wonders where his brother has run off to this time as he prepares to leave to take Alfred dinner.