Author's note: I'm so sorry for the long gap between updates. I promise the next chapter will be out within the next month. Also, I feel incredibly selfish for asking for reviews, but they really are encouraging. Please take the extra time to leave a few remarks regarding your opinions and views on how the story is coming along. That being said, please enjoy the next chapter!

-o-

"And Mr. Kirkland has been provided proper meals?"

America heaved an inward sigh. He was sure that the awkward attempts at idle conversation were meant to put him at ease; something to distract from the oppressive mass that loomed and condensed tauntingly in the air. And he could hardly blame the doctor - as they made their way up the narrow staircase, a nearly tangible energy seemed ooze and dribble from the ceiling, pouring across the walls and soaking into the carpet. He could imagine it squelching beneath his shoes, pulling at the soles of his feet with every step in an effort to swallow him up and drown him in its endless depths.

But upon flicking his gaze back to his company, it appeared America was the only one experiencing any unpleasant effects from the questionably present presence. Other than hazel eyes glazing over with the most repulsive shade of pity, the woman behind him seemed unfazed by the viscous goo that would not stop pulling. Ducking his head, the nation turned his attention resolutely to the landing ahead (Don't look at me like that - I don't need your pity, I don't want your pity.) and allowed his eyes to adjust to the haunted, opaque and utterly hopeless looking glass that melded over his eyes and tainted the view of the dimly lit hallway.

He didn't bother to point out that she'd asked the same question twice before, and found no use in reminding her that twice he'd answered with a frustrated affirmative.

It was only when they had reached the bedroom doorway that America showed signs of mental coherency outside of forced, automatic reactions. The fine hairs quivered on the back of his neck and his fingers twitched absently. Strong, broad shoulders seemed to tremble as they strained to slip into a relaxed demeanor, trying desperately to fight an instinctive rigidity that pulled his muscles taut against his flesh. Something feral stirred in the azure eyes, flickering with an eager interest as the battle raged on; glowing and bursting behind bright cobalt with a wild and wholly animalistic flare before their lids snapped shut.

Every sensation swept over his body in a tidal wave, rattling him to the bone with its violent intensity. Yet it crashed and settled in a silent torrent; appearing to any spectator as nothing more than a brief spasm one might experience from a chill fluttering down their spine. While frightening at first, it was taken in ease as it quickly fled down to shaken fingertips and curled toes and was shrugged off with an awkward smile.

And the woman beside America responded to the reaction as expected - she offered a reassuring smile and a soothing hand as the nation drew a sharp, rattling breath. Though if she wasn't alarmed by the small display before, America mused, the brilliant smile that he donned as they crossed the threshold must have been rather intriguing.

"Arthur," he announced, blue irises taking on a pale shade of heartache that shone through the broad smile as he approached the rigid body upon the bed. "This is Dr. Hunt. She's here to help." A gentle hand swept fondly through golden locks.

Dulled green eyes showed no sign of recognition as the man above swept a gentle hand through flaxen locks; merely watched as he unlocked the toy cuffs attached to two limp arms.

America took a seat upon the quilts, taking an unresponsive hand into his own. "She's here to help you."

"Please," a soft, nearly silken voice in its gentle tones, made itself known from the doorway. "Cynthia is perfectly fine."

England, for his part, regarded the guest with little interest. His face was smoothed over with an impassive, almost vacant stare, but America could see the spark of a flint striking behind emerald eyes. Reassuring fingers stroked along sunken cheek.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland." Cynthia kept a respectable distance, nodding politely from where she stood with a small smile. She gestured to the slender wooden chair America had set alongside the nation's bedside table. "May I have a seat? I'm afraid these bones are getting too tired to keep up with the London weather, and they get a bit creaky under a late downpour."

America studied the monarchist's face closely, clinging to his carefree smile desperately as he noted a rather sharp tick tugging at the corner of his partner's lips; a worried, drawn face would only add further stress. He needed to be calm and collective.

"Please." The word sounded dry and clipped as the older spoke it, but was incredibly weary. His expression, however, was blank. "The pleasure is all mine, Doctor."

"You're too kind, Mr. Kirkland." She dropped herself daintily into the chair with poise and a grateful smile, drawing herself upright before clasping her hands unobtrusively in her lap. Her gaze was steady on England's as she moved about, either blind or blatantly ignorant to the dangerous undertones of the island's words.

The flint struck again behind green eyes, the dull haze lifting to give way to a streak of light that was much alike to that found upon prey that come to the dawning realization that they've been hunted. Thin lips twitched once, twice more before the light fizzled out into the muddied green once more.

"I am very interested, Doctor," America felt the once limp hand tense in his own, "as to what your visit pertains to."

"Oh, of course!" Cynthia's sweet tones gave nothing away to indicate she realized the growing danger; the younger nation's mouth went dry as generously large brows gave a sharp twinge. "Your friend Alfred has been growing concerned with your behavior. He seems to believe that you've not been yourself lately, sir."

Nails pierced the younger nation's palm with a startling ferocity, sinking until a thin line of blood gurgled from the wounds. America merely brushed an errant thumb over rigid, white knuckles, his reassuring smile unwavering.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Doctor."

"Begging your pardon," she paused, her keen eyes sweeping over England's face with an air of innocent curiosity. The island's entire body stiffened under the scrutiny. "But I think you do."

And there it was - the rabid, uncontrollable madness surged forth as the monarchist growled - actually growled - and lurched forward toward the woman. America immediately threw his body over the island's midsection, effectively pinning his partner to the bed. He both heard and felt the startled gasp as the wind was painfully forced from the elder's lungs from the initial impact, and used the moment's pause to straddle the nation by his thighs as he trapped one frail wrist in each hand. England instantly began to thrash beneath the new confinement.

"You have no right to come into my home simply to throw out outrageous accusations!"

"I wasn't aware that I've made any." Cynthia maintained a cool demeanor as she spoke, her words calm and measured as she cast a worried eye to the younger nation. "I've merely stated observations."

"First it's observations, then accusations are formulated," England bit out as he fought his captivity. "I was only skipping ahead to the point you must be dying to get to, Doctor."

"And what accusations are you so sure I'll make?" The even tone of the woman's voice only seemed to antagonize the older nation as he bucked and twisted savagely beneath America's hands.

"You know what," he snarled, baring his teeth as he panted from his efforts. "Don't you dare play stupid in this, I know you know!"

"What?" Cynthia pressed. "What are you so sure I know?"

"Stop it, stop it!" England's scream was ugly and quavering and shrill; the younger nearly buckled beneath the gravity of the emotion it held.

"Tell me what I know, Arthur." Another long, piercing wail followed the soft command. "Tell me."

"I'm not, I swear it!"

"Arthur, you need to calm yourself," Cynthia said, her voice rising to be heard over the cries. "Calm down, dear; breathe."

"I can't, I can't, I can't," England moaned, his body trembling violently beneath the younger nation as he struggled. "He can't know, he'll know!"

"Who will know what?" The monarchist shook his head as tears began to trek down into his hair. The doctor tried again. "I can't help you if you don't tell me, love. Breathe, breathe - there's a good lad."

"I never wanted your help," England spat, eyes ablaze as they snapped open to meet the woman's. "I don't need your help, you insufferable bint!"

"Arthur, you -"

"I'm not insane!"

America bit his lip as he stifled his sob, appreciative of the blood that splayed over his tongue if only for serving as a distraction from the pain that clawed and tore within his chest. The agony that contorted the lovely features upon the island's face was too much to bear; the keening, tortured sounds and wet screams were growing louder and louder in his mind, blocking every thought, every emotion that ripped through his nerves. The fire was burning, scorching his throat and melting the soft tissue until he was sure he could feel warm, sticky blood pouring from the charred edges of a newly developed orifice. It was spilling, spewing onto the terrified face of his loved one as he screamed and screamed and pleaded -

"Mr. Jones."

Suddenly the young nation was swallowing through the feverish haze, the roar of the blaze dying down to a soft hiss in the back of his mind. He blinked hard to clear the blur of tears as he turned to the woman standing beside him with the saddest expression of concern he'd seen in quite some time. An unbidden smile tugged at his lips at the memory of bright emerald eyes that shimmered with unspilt tears and hands that clung with frenzied worry. It wasn't until the fog of reminiscence faded that he realized the doctor's lips were moving.

"Sorry." He flinched; his voice sounded like a handful of rocks being ground in a blender. "What?"

"I was asking if you were alright." The sweet tones of Cynthia's voice sounded strained as her hazel eyes searched his face. "You've been unresponsive for a several minutes."

Azure flashed sharply in panic, darting to the man below with a startling sense of urgency. But the smaller nation was motionless - asleep, America realized upon studying the slack muscles and the deep, even breaths wafting through slightly parted lips.

"I administered a light sedative," Cynthia quietly edified. "I brought it along as a precaution, though I must admit I hadn't been expecting to use it quite so soon into our meeting."

America stared down at his partner with a sad smile, fingers smoothing reverently across a bushy brow. "Sorry about that."

"It's quite alright, dear." A tentative hand came to a rest on the nation's strong back. "It's your well-being that I'm worried with at the moment."

"I'm fine." The answer was soft, nearly inaudible as the country shrugged the comforting hand away and carefully maneuvered himself to his feet. When his eyes met the doctor's, he wasn't surprised to see the hazel irises had turned to liquid pools of unease.

"I don't think you are, Mr. Jones." Her words weren't haughty or stingingly matter-of-fact; they were hushed and hollowed by the relentless blade of compassion.

And the young nation hated that look. He didn't want her feel sorry for him - she had no reason to. He wasn't the one whose life was in danger, hanging on a treacherous thread that threatened to snap under the strain of battle each day. He wasn't the one who desperately needed help; who needed someone to tell him that it was okay and that he was loved and cherished despite his partner's inability to communicate efficiently.

He suddenly felt the urge to vomit. America didn't need her sympathy - England needed it.

"When was the last time you've had a proper night's sleep?"

Startled out of his reverie, he stared at the woman in bewilderment. When was the last time he'd slept? The days had melded into one another in a blur of motion, but not once did he remember a time of rest.

"I," he muttered dimly, "I don't know."

Painted lips pursed into a thin line of determination, but the alarm in the amber eyes betrayed the look of stern resolve. Cynthia took a moment's pause before presenting her firm pronouncement.

"Mr. Kirkland should be hospitalized."

America's eyes narrowed to slits as the hiss that lingered at the back of his tongue trickled into his ears. "Not an option."

"You cannot do this alone," Cynthia proclaimed, gesturing to his face helplessly. "You're exhausted, Mr. Jones. You may not have reached your limit as of yet, but it's coming, and you won't be able to stop yourself when it does!"

"He is not being hospitalized." The hiss was growing louder, bolder as it trickled into his blood and lit his nerves on fire.

"Please, be reasonable," the woman pleaded. "This situation isn't healthy for either of you - your psyche won't be able to handle this! As an assisting stranger, yes, but as a lover you're left completely at the mercy of his words and actions."

"He is not being hospitalized, Dr. Hunt." The conviction in the man's voice was as solid as steel, clearly making any further debate on the matter pointless. The woman's face fell to a miserable frown.

"You two cannot go on in these conditions," she said meekly. "You've said yourself that what you're doing isn't helping."

"Then I'll do what I can to change things," America growled. His head was beginning to throb dully. "I'll try new tactics to get him to talk. I'll be with him day and night, never leaving his side for a moment so I won't have to tie him up. I'll do everything within my power to see him get better; anything except admitting him to some hospital where he'll be treated as nothing more than a prisoner with no one there to love him when he needs it most.

"I don't care if you think it's the best thing to do. Arthur is different than everyone else - locking him up will only remind him of horrible things...things he's had to go through in his past. He doesn't need to be imprisoned for being sick." The nation drew a long, shaky breath to clear the haze of steam that seemed to cloud his mind. "He needs comfort and - and love."

Cynthia silently scrutinized the young man's face, her eyes darting over his features in a fervid search before all stiff defiance slipped from her shoulders in fluid deflation.

"If you are so adamant on caring for him on your own," she said haltingly, "I recommend he be moved somewhere outside of the city. He needs a peaceful environment - somewhere remote and secluded for him to gather his thoughts beyond of the confines of his home." She considered the elder nation upon the bed sadly. "I imagine he considers it a prison in itself at this point."

America nodded. Though only one possible haven came to mind, he was certain that the process of getting England to it would be the equivalent of pulling teeth from a patient without novocain. His jaw clenched painfully at the premonition.

"Also," Cynthia continued, "Mr. Kirkland mentioned something that you might be able to make sense of." Her brows furrowed apologetically. "I'm not sure whether you were with us at that point."

"Probably not," the younger conceded. His hand traveled back to the peaceful, if not painfully lined face of his partner.

"He said something about a frog." America stiffened, his hand freezing before it could reach the pallid flesh. "I thought nothing of it at first, but it was the way he said the word; he sounded positively frantic."

"I think -" America's voice failed, breaking into a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat roughly. "I think I know what he's talking about."

The doctor was silent, clearly waiting for him to continue.

"Someone Arthur's known all his life," America said, resting his hand on a head of golden hair. He was sure every pore on his body illuminated as the nation leaned ever so slightly into his touch. "He has a lot of history with the guy."

"History?" The inquiry was innocent enough; the younger had the sudden urge to laugh at the irony of his choice of words.

"Yeah," he conceded, massaging the scalp beneath his fingers lightly as he spoke. "They sort of grew up together."

"And how was their relationship during that time?"

America's brow furrowed. "They've had their ups and downs, I guess. I've never really talked with him about it." He trailed off, pondering the events of his partner's past. He'd never really thought of asking about England's past before; he assumed the other would either take offense to the questioning or brush off the curiosity altogether. "Arthur's always been pretty caustic when dealing with him as far as I've known him. In fact, it's pretty close to..." Hatred.

The woman hummed, observing the small interaction between the two men thoughtfully. "So Mr. Kirkland might be battling with past trauma."

Past trauma? As nations, they were subjected to live with volumes of trauma. Wars affected them in the most painful of ways - tearing and rending skin and muscle from the bone with a bomb, breaking bones and organs failing as they lost their people in battles. The stench of the dying and the taste of tears still lingered upon America's tongue, not to mention the constricting pain within his chest during each economical depression. It was simply something that every nation had to bear. What trauma could possibly drive him to the brink if those past sufferings passed through his mentality with no lasting harm?

"I suggest," the doctor said in the most delicate voice America had ever heard, "that you attempt to speak with Mr. Kirkland about his relationship with this man. I don't believe it will be easy if this is truly a case of repressed trauma, but you must be patient. If he refuses to go into details, allow him to open up himself. Don't pressure him in any way; he'll come to you when he's ready,"

She then turned to the bedside table, rifling through the papers scattered across the tabletop before discovering a clean sheet. She scribbled a few lines before folding it into fourths as she looked up to the nations once more.

"This is my emergency number and personal address," she handed the neatly folded paper to America. "I always answer, regardless of the time of day. Please give me a ring if I can be of any assistance."

"But this was just supposed to be a consultation," America frowned, still holding the information with his outstretched hand. "I'm not signing him on to be a patient. This was a one time deal."

Clicked her tongue, but smiled at the man. "Everything will be free of charge, I assure you. I'm simply thinking of your best interest."

"You mean Arthur's," the younger corrected, his eyes narrowing a bit. Cynthia merely smiled. "Well...I appreciate it. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," the doctor assured with a wave of her hand. "Come be a dear and walk me to the door, would you?"

America agreed, planting a quick peck on England's forehead before following her down the stairs and to the front door. Cynthia shrugged on her coat and gave a last lingering look to the young man beside her before giving his hand a tiny squeeze.

"Get some sleep, love." And with that, she left into the drizzle beyond the porch's protection.

-o-

It was hardly an hour after Cynthia Hunt's departure when there was a sharp rapping on the door, followed by several calls from the doorbell. America frowned, staring at the door with a mixture of alarm and nervousness. There shouldn't be anyone calling on England - he had made sure to send letters of formal apologies to the heads of office on the island's behalf (forged, of course, but nonetheless convincing if he said so himself), so there should be no need of anyone doing any checking up on the absent country.

He headed cautiously to the door, unlatching the bolt before hesitantly drawing open the door. The young nation balked at the sight of the visitor at the doorstep."

"Mr. Cameron," America greeted with a shaky laugh, peering with no small amount of trepidation into the icy blue eyes, "Good evening!"

Thin lips curled into a look of barely contained rage.

"What in God's name are you doing in my country's home, America?"