Felicia heard the crash from the kitchen.
Boiling water splashed everywhere, burning her back, but she took no notice. The nation hurled herself in front of Holy Rome, brandishing a spatula and ready to protect him from whatever Devil wanted her love now. Cheeks flushed with terror and rage, "De locus höc decedete, larvae!" she shouted, reverting to the Latin of her childhood in her agitation.
It took the flustered Italian woman a few moments to realize who was standing in front of her. The spatula slipped from her sweaty hands. Total shock encompassed her pale thin face. After a few moments, she began to cry in bewilderment. "How... how did you find me?"
Holy Rome tried to push past her, only to stumble and fall to his knees, where he began patting the carpet as if looking for something lost. Italy hoisted him to his feet and gave him an uncustomary shove in the direction of his bedroom. "Go to your room," she rasped. "Let me handle this." From the way she held the spatula she had picked up from the floor, the meaning of the word "handle" was undefined and highly worrying.
"No." Holy Rome croaked out the word, his tongue thick and fuzzy in his mouth. He shook his head to articulate his point, in case his voice wasn't working again.
Italy gaped at him. "I said go to your room! Go back to sleep. You need to get better!"
"No," he implored. "I need to rest. I'm so tired. Just let me go."
Felicia grabbed the boy as he struggle to make his way past her, grasped him by the shoulders, and shook him hard. "No! You are not going anywhere! You are not leaving me again. You will never leave me again!" She cried harder than she thought she could. Tears jumped out her eyes like little silver fish. "Never! Never!"
The doorstep creaked, and Italy whirled around and smacked the nearest person, who happened to be Hungary, across the face with the spatula. Holy Rome seized his chance to run blindly towards the faint draft he took to be the open door.
Four faces stared down at the the boy, and two of them grew white. Hungary's hand moved slowly to Spain's arm and clutched it tightly. Spain's jaw was slack and his face very white. "Oh my God," whispered Hungary. Spain was speechless. Romano and Germany were confused.
Italy pushed Holy Rome behind her, brandishing the spatula as if it would defend her against a frying pan and at least one gun. Her eyes were wild. "You're not-a taking him-a away from-a me, you-a hear me? He's-a never leaving-a me again!"
Romano looked, bewildered, from Hungary's horror to Spain's shock, to Germany's confusion. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Who the hell is that kid?"
Hungary swallowed. "That," she answered, "is Holy Rome."