He had pushed just about half of his living room up against the cellar door. The man had backed down from attempting to kick the door down rather quickly, much to England's surprise. He inspected his once broken wrist. It had healed, just as it should for a mortal injury. This meant however, that whatever was in his cellar that had inflicted the stab wound in his thigh was indeed a nation. He slumped against the couch and took a deep breath. If he didn't get this leg taken care of it would get infected, if it wasn't already. He couldn't call an ambulance, not without having to leave the lunatic in his house. Alone. He couldn't call the police, this was a nation he had locked up in his basement, let alone one that claimed to be himself. It wasn't worth the risk. The thunder continued its gentle roll in the distance, the rain no longer flying against the windows of the home. He didn't have a knife on hand, so the whole trouser was going to have to come off. He slowly inched them off, biting his cheek as the fabric rubbed against the wound. He finished and tossed the blood stained tan wool to the side, inspecting the cut. It was deep, but miraculously lacking in puss. There was dried blood down to his ankle, sticky and unsightly. England had gotten worse cuts from Spain back in the old days and he was still here. Of course, that was the old days.
He pulled himself up, putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on the gash. His gaze remained locked on the barricade for a long moment before he managed to get to the bathroom down the hall. The warm lights of his house and the welcoming smell of cooked fish were almost insulting. How dare his home not reflect his state of disrepair. He flicked on the lights and sat on the edge on the edge of the tub, only after locking the door. The rest of his garments were thankfully much easier to remove before he slid in, pulling the curtain over so he wouldn't soak his floor. He sat in the corner of the shower, hot water pouring over all but his face, blood washing away down the drain. Minutes droned on as he watched the water run down the drain before finally cleaning up the cut in his leg. The ache being minimally soothed by the warmth of the shower. He scrubbed the blood from his unbroken skin that failed to come off on its own.
He couldn't tell how much time had passed since he got in the shower upon getting out, let alone how much time had passed since he was stabbed in the alley. The house was an eerie quiet without the pump of adrenaline in his ear or the shower running. He decided to turn on the sink to feel perhaps a little less alone. Who cares if he's wasting water? There was plenty of it coming down outside. It had been a long time since he had needed to apply gauze to anything on his body, but he pulled it out of the first aid kit from beneath the sink and began to tightly bind it around his thigh. The rubbing alcohol pad stung as he placed it over top of the injury and continued to encase it. He clipped it with a safety pin and sighed. Now what to do with the basement dweller? He pulled on a towel and peeked out of the bathroom. The barricade was still in place. Good. Despite his minor limp, he still managed to quietly make it back to his room. The unhelpful cutlass smiled at him from its mount.
"Thanks for nothing." He spoke under his breath to no one in particular. Half past eight, only the day after the incident. He hadn't been out for too long, and that was at least a minor relief. An olive bathrobe found its way onto his body and he revelled in the fluffy comfort. His phone was charging on the desk where he sat. Any normal person could use this as a lifeline. Unfortunately he was not a normal person, nor was this a normal situation. His only other options would be the others attending the summit as he was certainly in no shape to take on the one below, premeditated or not. Germany was certainly an option, not that the two were on the best terms. America wouldn't take him seriously, Japan didn't seem like the best option to take on a murderous nation with shears. It was now that England realized how truly alone he was among friends. There was however, one person. Canada was on good terms with the older nation, but then again size doesn't mean power. The man would probably wind up dead at the hands of whoever this was. He couldn't live with himself if he let that happen. The only option was to deal with this himself.
He made his way over to a storage closet knowing full well that he should really be laying down. He dug his way to the back and retrieved his old musket. He didn't keep it in the basement in case of a home invasion, where running downstairs would be the last thing any person with an ounce of intelligence would do. The gun may be illegal, but he could get away with a few things. He inched towards the barricade, a floorboard creaking beneath his feet. He paused, listening for any sound beyond the door. Nothing. He continued to take a single piece of furniture off at a time. As he took the first of two end tables off, a voice chilled him from beyond the door.
"That was awfully quick. You're takin it down already? You really are lonely." They chuckle and sigh. "Perhaps we could discuss this over a cup of tea? You must be awfully shaken up."
"What is there to discuss? You tried to kill me." He puts that table back. Not today.
"I am aware, but perhaps we got off on the wrong foot." This man was awfully confusing. They spoke as if with an old friend, pleasant and familiar. He obviously wasn't too uncomfortable. "The name's Arthur, what's yours?" He couldn't be serious. England took a long moment to decide how to proceed. He kept the gun pointed at the door and pile of furniture pushed up against it.
"Arthur."
"Oh how wonderfully coincidental!" He was serious, he was going to play this game. He kept the gun trained against the door as he moved to lean on the couch. His leg was in no position to maintain a shooting stance. "Now I do believe we have some things we need to discuss."
The door opened and England walked in, eight on the dot. Germany nodded in approval at the resumed timeliness of the nation. England took his seat far from France, but to his apparent dismay found himself near America instead. Canada bent around his brother to smile at England.
"I never got to say thank you for last night's dinner, Arthur."
"Hm? Oh, think nothing of it, Matthew." The Englishman didn't look Canada in the eye, or look at him at all. He seemed distracted, green eyes pensive with his blank stare at the projector. He must have had a late night, he seemed a little more disheveled than usual. Canada would have to ask about this later.
"Arthur, dude! You look grumpier than Ludwig today. What's up? You mad that we're already kicking your ass in soccer this year or somethin'?" Or America could ask now. That was fine. England looked more than a little annoyed at this comment but shook his head.
"No, you git. It's none of your business."
"Harsh. You kn-" Germany interrupted, calling the summit to session. It was the same as yesterday, nothing being accomplished for the longest time. Half of the nations seemed to nearly fall asleep, England had taken to writing his name in various cursives on a napkin, Spain and France flicked a pencil back and forth across the table when Germany wasn't looking. Which, of course, was often. One flick on France's end went haywire and landed in front of England, who wordlessly pocketed the pencil and jotted down a few notes in pen. He yawned, oblivious to France and Spain's silent but very passionate complaints from the other end of the table. It eventually got to the point where England took the pencil out and casually snapped it on the table, leaving it next to his papers. This of course led America to swipe them and silently toss one piece to France and the other to Spain. England gave him a look. The mildly enraged dad look that Canada and America knew very, very well.
"Oh c'mon Iggy. Lighten up!" The American whispered and gave England a playful nudge.
"Oh, Alfred. If you're so talkative, why not give us your view on the matter?"
"I still think the superhero idea could work. It's like totally possible! Or, now hear me out. We just move the Earth," He made a sweeping motion with his arms. "A few miles further from the sun."
"And who exactly would pay for that?"
"Basch, please don't entertain this idea." Germany looked defeated as he watched the control over this meeting slowly slip from his hands. America obviously had an answer.
"Literally everyone else! I came up with it so I did my part!"
"Everyone would literally die, Alfred for Christ's sake." England, like any other sensible person seemed incredibly exasperated that he had to explain this at all.
"Nah they wouldn't! Greenhouse gases and crap! They stay in the air and they're all warm so everyone would stay warm and the sun wouldn't need to heat us anymore."
"That is the exact opposite of what we're trying to do. We want less gases you absolute imbecile." This continued on for another half an hour or so, Canada just sat there, as usual. He had ideas and solutions, but it wasn't like anyone would listen to him anyway. The argument got further heated, England standing to talk down to the taller nation.
"Sit down dude, you're making a big deal out of nothing!" America gave him a pat on the thigh. England doubled over and despite his best efforts to bite his tongue, let a small cry break through gritted teeth as he was forced to sit down. "Oh come on, I didn't even hit you!"
"Angleterre?" France was immediately over at his side. "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine, sod off the both of you." America's expression changed when he realized the man was actually hurt. England quickly packed up his papers into a briefcase and got up, evidently trying to take weight off of his leg. Canada got up to help, but was immediately brushed off. "You too." He was gone moments later, France following him out the door.
"You don't need to go too, Francis."
"I don't need to listen to your silly German rules. He's hurt and I do what I want." And the purple suited man was through the door. Germany had turned his gaze to America.
"Thank you for throwing this entirely off the rails."
"Yeah, whatever." As Germany tried his best to resume the subject matter, Canada watched as America's eyes trained themselves on the door the two nations had left through, concern clouding them over as his foot tapped almost inaudibly on the carpet.
The meeting had wrapped up, neither France or England having returned. America walked alongside Canada, not quite as boisterous as usual. Canada knew he was concerned, worried even. He put a hand on his shoulder, offering to help him look for the two. America agreed and they set off down the halls, neither having a single clue where the two nations could possibly be. They swept the floors, top to bottom, not a single sign of the two. It certainly wasn't like them to up and leave like this, especially without telling anyone. America walked up to a secretary, asking if either of the two had checked out only to learn that they had. There was no way that they would be able to find them now. Canada decided to just send a text to France, asking if England was okay. His phone died as he went in to send a text to England. A full day's worth of meetings and no charger would do that to a phone. He sighed and walked with America out of the building. The two of them hailing a cab in the streets and directing it back to their hotel. Canada watched the sky slowly turn from blue to orange to fuchsia over their drive back. The light reflecting across the glass buildings, bringing some form of warmth to the chilly March. The rain of the night before had washed away the remnant snow, April officially setting itself in and preparing to make its flowery appearance. He sighed and sat back in his seat. America was gazing out the window as well. For once, Canada was unsure about what was on his mind. Maybe because he wasn't screaming it to the heavens, but it could also be the stoic expression on his features. He cared for England, just as Canada did. They arrived at the hotel and took their bags with them up the steps, a bellhop bringing the elevator down for them.
They walked into the penthouse suite, which Canada had insisted they didn't need, but America had adamantly requested. He plugged his phone in and got to making some dinner as America sat in front of the television. The Swanson case lighting up the lounge. Something about it didn't seem quite right. The BBC reporter droned on about the lack of evidence in the case. Sure, murders go cold all the time, but there was just no way this couldn't be solved. A murder weapon had been left behind, the body was left in the open. It didn't make sense. America must have been thinking the same thing as he watched the screen. The details were awfully resemblant of an old English murderer. Every cut was made with incredible precision. Organs neatly harvested, if one could call it neat. Yet again it seemed, this one would go uncaught. He turned back to the ground beef in the pan, stirring it some more before going on to prepare the seasoning and vegetables.
France poured the Englishman a glass of merlot, drier wines he assumed would be the preference of the man due to his love of hard liquors. He brought the glasses over and put one on a coaster for each of them. England had refused to tell him how, but there was gash in his thigh, and a large one at that. He gently changed the dressing on the wound, England sipping on the wine. The warmth of the hotel room and piano music were cut cold into his skin as his eyes met the cold dead ones staring him down.
"Francis, would anyone care if I disappeared?"
[A/N: Sorry about the false upload! I realized it was the wrong file whoops! Anyway, here you guys go. Two chapters in twenty four hours, aren't you lucky?]