Spirit Within, Starvation, Mirage, Heart of Fire, Mockingbird.

For the people on Tumblr who've seen all my rants about how much I hated Alfred back in Final Loop, this and last chapter are pretty much my revenge for all of that.

Recovery

Pond Scum

"Have you considered going to visit Italy?"

"I have."

"Soon?"

"Sometime before the end of the month. The Italian day of Remembrance is on the fourth, isn't it?"

"I believe so, yes."

The only member of the twelve England had seen over the last two months was France. This didn't make him the only one England had spoken to however; Spain had called him once or twice, and Canada kept in touch via e-mail, and China had decided that it was nearly time for them all to meet up again now that they were getting back to work. But still; France was the only one England had actually seen since September.

"So... what do you think of the drama going on in that new world of theirs?"

"I'm not sure," England answered, annoyed with the constant chatter but not about to look up from the proposal France had travelled all the way from Paris to bring him. He could multi-task. "But Canada has already made it painfully clear that I'm to stay out of it." Circling another word in red and crossing out the following clause, he liked to pretend he didn't know why France kept visiting him, or why he hadn't settled for simply e-mailing the current set of documents to England's office in Westminster, but there was no point.

"Painfully?" The frog pushed, and from his seat behind his desk England gave him a sharp look.

They were not, in fact, in England's office in Westminster. They were in his three-story flat in London town, second floor, in his home office. The take-out containers from their lunch were packed up and ready for England's housekeeper to dispose of. France had only grudgingly admitting that while Arthur Kirkland himself couldn't cook to save his own life, England had adopted several border-line edible variations of foreign cuisine. England would have smashed his face in his curry when the bearded ape said as much, but he was sitting just out of reach and had cleaned up his portion a little too quickly for the words to really bite.

"Painfully." England repeated, nudging his glasses up his nose and looking back down at the proposal. It was nothing serious, just broadcasting rights for several of England's new television shows: provisions about dubbing versus subbing, who could distribute, and how much they had to pay. It was technical and boring, but also deeply rewarding on England's part.

'Who's adopting whose culture now, Frog?' He had to try very hard not to cackle over the documents.

But France wasn't wondering about marketing rights right now, he was still waiting for England to elaborate on what was going on across the ponds with their former colonies. Realizing that they weren't going to get much more work done until this was settled, England pulled off his reading glasses and rolled his shoulders a little. France was slouching in his chair on the other side of the desk, his white jacket draped over the back of it while he wrinkled his blue shirt and tapped his leather shoes on the carpet. Fine.

"Canada has asked that I not speak to America about the two of them."

"And what has America said?" England spread his hands over his desk, dropping his red pen in the process. The answer was nothing, and France was oddly quiet as he watched England's face for several moments, the island nation staring right back.

"What?" Why was France giving him that look?

"It's nothing." Liar. France's blue eyes were clouded, his lips pulled in slightly above the blonde whiskers of his beard. England took a breath to call him out when France spared him. "When was the last time you spoke to our friend Alfred?"

Now it was England's turn to purse his lips and not answer. The question hurt, not because France was being hurtful, but because the question itself was extremely unpleasant. Of all the ways he could have imagined the Mansion fiasco ending with regards to America, being ignored had never crossed his mind. Canada hadn't even left behind an explanation for why the two of them took off from Europe so quickly in September, and England's fingers froze every time he tried writing an e-mail demanding why.

He tried not to be too obvious about everything as he glanced over at Mint-Bunny curled up on her cushion by the window. Grey London light was filtering through the sheer white drapes and the heavy red curtains that framed them, his Familiar comfortable with her face buried in her paws, wings twitching over her green rump. France let him get away with the distraction, but only just.

"It's been two months, Arthur." Human names. France- Francis wanted to use human names... Things were slowly getting back to normal, so hearing those names was becoming harder to handle.

"I'm aware of that." Two months of silence, after another month of silence, after several lost years spent killing and dying for one another inside a haunted mansion. It was not pleasant, and he did not want to have this conversation.

"Does he know you're feeling better?" Arthur doubted Alfred even knew he'd been ill, and said as much. "Here. Stand up for a moment." Arthur curled his hands up on his desk, knuckles pressed down on the thick wood.

"Why?" He demanded, cautiously watching Francis lift himself out of his chair and tug his shirt and trousers back in order, banishing wrinkles and in general looking far too pleased with himself. Arthur didn't make a move to sit or stand up. He was quite happy to remain where he was, thank you.

This was why Francis kept visiting him. Why else would someone in this day and age would cross a channel instead of simply faxing or e-mailing whatever it was they wanted to send?

"To show me how much you've improved, of course." Arthur snorted at the implication; he didn't need to display such things. He didn't know why he kept letting his housekeeper open the door when he knew the Frog was standing on the other side.

"Francis sit down, we have work to do." The sour blonde reached for his reading glasses again, ignoring the smirk shining down on him.

"Angleterre~"

"Sit down or go back to Paris, Frog." He said, nearly adding that Francis could make up his mind while he was at it too: England or Arthur, which was it going to be? Arthur was in the middle of uncapping his pen again when Francis came hurrying around the desk at him and-

"No!"

"Come on, Arthur! You've been doing so well lately!" Every typical slur and name Arthur could think of ran over his lips as he pushed against the edge of his desk trying to get away. Despite the effort he failed to out-manoeuvre Francis' grasping reach and felt the uncomfortable tension twisting the back and body of his seat. Swearing violently, the Englishman reached to try and claw the stupid Frog's arm but- lacking both claws and the right range of motion, he found himself thrashing madly and staring up at the ceiling instead.

Rather, staring up at the ceiling and Francis' grinning face, the other nation displaying not the slightest regret at grabbing the wheelchair and tipping it back like Arthur was a sack of potatoes resting on a dolly. That he decided to run him around the room only added insult to injury.

"Greasy fop!"

"Caterpillar punk!" Stupid insult didn't even make any- "Oh, stop acting like a child!"

"This isn't funny!" Stop laughing at him! "Don't scold me like that you git! There's nothing funny about this! I ought to have you arrested!"

"Why, when you could just-?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

The front of Arthur's wheelchair hit the floor so hard he was nearly pitched out of it. One of his feet found the floor and awkwardly braced his body until he could move back into his seat, a dull ache building in his hip from the minor but unexpected work.

"Amerique!" Francis- France? He cheered the name and England found himself struggling to catch up, his mind spinning while the Frenchman spoke to the new Nation standing in the doorway. "What a surprise, we were just-"

"Get out." Gunshot.

A gunshot was the first thing he thought of. That was what it sounded like. England didn't say a word, or rather, he hadn't said a word, and that was why France stopped dead and was confused by the order. It didn't matter which side of the ocean you lived on: guests did not order guests out of the host's house.

But America was stern, and he was there, which had to count for something. He was standing in England's house, right outside his office door, wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit and tie. Was he well? He looked well, thank goodness, his cheeks held colour and his blue eyes were sharp behind the square frames of his glasses. Spine ram-rod straight and broad shoulders tucked neatly into the lines of the suit, he looked better than England could have hoped, given how they'd last seen each other.

He didn't look like he'd just stepped off a plane either; his clothes were pressed and his collar was straight and done up close over the hollow in his throat. He'd taken care of himself before coming here, he'd cleaned up, spruced up, he was wearing a tie for god's sake. America didn't even have that groggy, miserable look in his blue eyes that always came from a trans-Atlantic flight, most importantly-

"Are you deaf, France? I said get out."

Most importantly, he was acting nothing like himself. England wasn't sure what to say when France turned and looked down at him, clearly asking whether or not England was going to stand for America's attitude in his house, but he didn't have an answer. His first reaction should have been to jump up and scream and holler at the American to mind his god-damned manners and remember his place. That was how England should have reacted, but instead he just glanced up at the other Nation and, before he could stop himself:

"Could you give us a moment, France?"

He couldn't read France's reaction and England could barely rationalize his own. Of course he wanted to talk to America, git, and of course he wanted to have this conversation alone and without commentary. That couldn't be so hard for France to understand, had they not just been dancing around the thorny issue of correspondence? Yes. Exactly. That was exactly why England was letting this slide, and he expected France to do what he said without comment.

He did, however, catch the momentary twitch of the other Nation's brow and saw his lips pull apart just-so. His eyes raced over England's face before France broke out into his usual smile and gave an obnoxious laugh, 'oh-hon-hon'-ing as he pulled a mysterious red rose from his sleeve and spun with a flourish to face America again. England didn't know why he was so relieved to have France's cooperation.

"Ah! I understand!" If only he wasn't such a drama-queen. "I shall leave you quarrelsome boys alone for the time being." Or maybe he was just a clown. "Perhaps I will brave the dreary London weather all on my own! Such is life!"

"Oh, just wait downstairs, you idiot!" England found his bark and used it, straightening his tie where he'd been tugging it loose during their negotiations before lunch. "We still have business, you can't worm your way out of those royalties!"

"He means royal pains, you know? Good to see you again, America." America didn't even smile back as France passed him, the super-power at least displaying the courtesy to step aside so France could exit without squeezing through the door.

As soon as he was out, America stepped inside and shut the door. The room was entirely too after that, but he couldn't figure out what to say to fill the sudden void. Two months. Two months since he'd almost died and England- no. One month of silence and trauma reading the journal in Bern followed by the near-death of the Nation in front of him, which had earned England the cold shoulder for the last two months from the beginning of September to now at the tail-end of October.

'He's alive. He's alive, and he's well, and furthermore he's not like-' England finished the thought with a tense, uncomfortable feeling worming through his gut, like the curry from before had somehow upset his stomach instead of soothing his appetite. There was a strange look on the younger Nation's face, one that sent an uncharacteristically self-concious bolt down the Englishman's spine- or at least as much of it as he could feel. America wasn't just staring at him, he was dumbfounded by the seat England was trapped in.

As wheelchairs went England's was nothing special; lightweight and manoeuvrable, a simple black body with polished silver attachments. Rims were attached to the wheels so he could move himself around, and England took advantage of them now, coughing into one hand while the other spun him so he could turn and wheel back around towards his desk. He was lucky he had such a low desk at home; the one in Westminster was much too tall for the wheelchair and required he climb into his normal seat and back again. It was good exercise, but as England came to a sharp stop in his place behind the dark mahogany, he folded his hands in front of him and looked up expectantly, gesturing to the seat France had vacated.

"Won't you sit?" America didn't move. The only change was that he was looking at England's face now, not trying to stare through the desk at the chair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked.

'Three months of silence and that's the first thing you have to say?' England didn't know if he was upset or surprised, but instead of firing back with something he just folded his hands again and found himself trying to calm the American down. It might have helped if he'd been able to calm himself down first, but the butterflies wouldn't listen. Three months. Three months since the escape, and the shouting, and the everything that wasn't worth worrying about. He needed to forget all of that and just focus on now.

"Just some lingering paralysis, I suppose." He didn't know what tone to use in his answer, but-

"Lingering paralysis." -but if America's was any indication, he got it wrong. "From what?" He was harsh with his words and England barely contained his wince with a shocked blink. America forced the words out, making the question rough and uncomfortable in the tense air. Why was he glaring like that?

"From... September?"

"You really did a number on yourself, huh, old man?" England stiffened at the condescending tone. As if sensing his distress, Mint-Bunny stirred over by the window and opened her eyes with a sleepy huff. America wasn't exactly being quiet, but this- no, something was wrong. "Always the exhibitionist and for no fucking reason, right?"

That felt like a slap.

"If you ask me it was worth it." But America wasn't asking him and England was fighting to keep his breathing under control. His temper wasn't rising the way he wanted it, he was upset but anger wasn't playing a big enough role in his reaction.

He could remember it perfectly, all England had to do was close his eyes and think back to that smoke-covered battlefield. He could hear as well as see the machines streaking through the sky with one in particular flying much too low and losing its balance as it wobbled back and forth in the air like a toy. He hadn't even known if he could reach that far, or use the same spell he remembered from one of the failed loops- it had killed him in his memories.

But he'd succeeded in reality.

"Well whatever. I'm not here to talk about this, I just didn't expect you to look so pathetic." Pathetic?

"Bold words for someone who just barged into my house." England snapped, brushing aside the shaken, miserable feelings creeping up at America's harsh dismissal and grabbing his anger by the throat. After three months of pining he wasn't going to oblige America by becoming 'pathetic'. "If I recall you once elected a President who was permanently-"

"Don't talk about my bosses like you have any idea what that means!"

England stared. That was the most un-American thing he'd ever witnessed, his mind struggling to find a time or a place where nothing had erupted into something just like that. Rage was not America's first weapon, he didn't raise his voice and bellow and scream at the first thing that upset him.

Yes, sometimes he came into people's houses and ordered them around- but not like he had with France. He didn't start off dangerous. First he would treat it like a joke, a yuck-yuck-good-time, and if that didn't work then he'd whine and look cute. Then he'd ask his friends why things weren't going his way- he may or may not listen to what they said, but only then would he start to bully. And it would build slowly, bartering, arm-twisting, coercion, warnings- then shouting.

"What's going on?" He said that too softly- speak up!

"Shut up."

"Why are you here?" It was safer than 'What the bloody hell is wrong with you?'. America at least had the presence of mind, huffing and puffing as he was, to make eye-contact and point in England's direction.

Actually, America hadn't broken eye-contact since he'd established it. England found his hands resting back on the rims of his wheelchair, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do with them. His townhouse was tall, not wide or long, he had all of three other rooms on this floor to choose from before he'd have to brave a flight of stairs. And he wasn't going to run away in his own house! Stop this!

"I'm here so you can tell Russia to back the fuck away from Canada."

"What?" He was here because... because of that?

"Or- better yet, you just yank that idiot back in line. Hang him by those apron strings of yours if you have to, just-"

"America!" England was aghast, because it was better than the throbbing hurt that hit him in the chest. That, he was here over that: his spat with Canada. "A-apron strings? America what are you talking about? Canada's independent, I haven't had anything to do with his foreign policy since-"

"Bullshit!" Stop this. No. This wasn't supposed to be their first conversation, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. "After me his biggest partners are all your Commonwealth trash!"

"America-!" He wasn't supposed to be yelled at. He wasn't supposed to be insulted- not like this anyways. Bickering and banter was one thing, England's Commonwealth was-

"Oh shut up! I didn't say you could speak!" No. NO. This was not how America was supposed to- "You own him, he's even still got your whore queen all over his-" NO!

"Watch your mouth in my house!" England slammed his hands on his desk as he screamed the words, rising to his full height without realizing it, and cramming the stiffness and pain in his limbs into a tiny little box to deal with later. "Russia? Russia? You ignore me for two god-damned months after I saved your sorry ass, barge into my home, order away my friend, attack my family and insult my longest reigning monarch- to bitch about RUSSIA?"

"You didn't save-"

"GET OUT!" Idiot! Idiot! Idiot America and stupid, stupid England! "Get out before I throw you out!" As he shouted Mint-Bunny was in a huff and came to land right on the edge of England's desk, growling and flapping her wings aggressively. He could hear the bumping behind him as Tink woke up and started pushing her way out of her special drawer in the shelves, his magic growing stronger inside of him as he kept the heat burning in his belly.

No. NO. This was all wrong, this was the world on its head, this was everything England hadn't even conjured up in nightmares of seeing America again. He forced away the part of his heart that was screaming, the one begging to understand why this was how the chips had fallen. It made no sense, he hadn't wronged America, he honestly hadn't. Who'd attacked who outside the mansion because it was just so convenient? Who'd been ignored, and stared down, and disregarded for months? Who had saved whose life at the cost of his own god-damned mobility?

"You're so damn proud you can't even see what's going on!" America shouted back, unphased by England's voice and not doing the smart thing and getting the hell out of his house! He'd kill him, he swore to God if he could have walked past the desk he'd wrap his hands around that neck and- "You and I both know Russia getting close to my brother is bad news!"

"Sure- in the fifties! Now grow up and get away from me!"

"I'm not gonna let that bastard use the mansion as an excuse to-"

"The mansion!" England cut him off, he wanted America out, he wanted him to go away! "Don't act like you have any idea what that place did to us!" No idea, he didn't have a single god-damned clue.

"Canada-"

"Canada's the one who invited Russia to come with us!" Why did he have to talk about this? Why these words? England didn't care about the brothers' fight, not when everything else was- "Where have you been? It isn't coercion, America, it's what happens when governments spend twenty years trying to make their nations talk to one another!" But this was the fight. Canada was the fight and England just couldn't stand it. They were both idiots, America for not recognizing that his brother had been close to Russia in every single loop, and England for not acknowledging from start to finish that America had never once moved even an inch closer to him...

"Tell him-!"

"No! It's not coercion!" Like what America was trying to do. "It's not blackmail!" Like how that stare of his kept threatening England, the younger nation storming across the room at him so they were shouting face-to-face. So damned close but too impossibly far- "It's not torture, America, and you have no right to come in here demanding-!"

"Will you for once just do what I tell you!" America slammed one hand down next to Mint-Bunny, and in the next instant his hand took England's tie and yanked it, hard, in his direction.

England hated his body's reaction.

As assaults went it was a love-tap, England did worse to France on a regular basis: yank on a tie, cuff the back of a head, kick a shin, get a grip around the neck and show that you could squeeze if you wanted to. America was angry but not blind when he grabbed England, but his spine and his legs couldn't take the sudden shift. He wasn't supposed to be walking yet and the little box of pain in his mind exploded as his balance was ripped off centre.

He cried out as pain lanced his hip and shot down his thighs to burn in both knees, the arms that had been keeping him upright collapsing from the shock. He hoped his cry was angry enough to show how much he hated it, how involuntary the reaction was, but he knew it just sounded weak: one strangled, gasping cry and his legs gave out. He caught himself by slamming one elbow on the desk, but that and America's grip were the only things holding him up, the fire of his magic smothered by the sick nausea of unnatural pain.

"A-Arthur?" He had no right to use that name-! "Arthur!"

England felt the tension around his neck vanish as America let go as quickly as he'd grabbed him, all hope of recovery shattered as he lost one of the only things keeping him steady before he could force his legs into position. He knocked his chin on the edge of the desk as the entire thing slid past him, his body crumpling to the floor as he gasped around the humiliating pain in his legs.

The office door swung open and French words and English shrieks cut through the ringing in his ears. England closed his eyes when he saw America's knee come down in front of him, a pair of hands on his shoulder and back.

NO!

"Don't you touch me!"

The pain was in his legs and he forced the strength back into his arms, one pushing him up while the other hand swept forward. England didn't even know what he was doing until hot red light flared around him, scoring the carpet and spiralling around his fingers. His chest was tight with rage and he shut out the fear the burning in his body was causing, letting himself sink fast into the flood of anger when his swipe missed America by a mile. The younger blonde toppled back with a shout and braced himself on both hands.

England didn't expect him to retaliate, so when his heel slammed into England's nose it sent the former empire reeling in pain. He shut his eyes again to block out the stars and flung a hand up over the hot spurt of blood that came out of his nose. His house-keeper's shrill voice reached a new level only to be undercut by France's loud, booming words:

"Assez! America out! OUT! No! Shut up!"

"Brute! Scoundrel! Scotland Yard will-!" Scotland Yard?

"America the police are coming," no! No, no, n- "get out now before it gets worse!" No, the police couldn't come here. They couldn't report this. They couldn't see England like this-

He kept his eyes closed and his hand over his mouth and nose, forcing himself to lay straight on the floor and not curl up as far as he could with his numb lower-body. The pain was fading to a dull ache, burning in his mind instead of splitting his flesh but- oh God, he was gasping. He couldn't breathe and when he tried he heard it come out like a sob, he was sobbing-!

No. No his pride couldn't take any more. Rejected and crippled and bleeding- tears were too much, he couldn't stand it, he couldn't be this way. America couldn't see him this way, he didn't deserve it, too many moments of weakness had been exposed for him to offer up any more! Anger, he had to get angry, had to make his lungs draw in hot, sweltering air in through his mouth and around the thick blood dribbling down his chin. He'd rather lay bleeding and enraged than sobbing and-

"GET OUT!" He was proud of himself for that holler, putting all the heat and the anger he could force into the words and telling himself he felt the house shake for it.

"Allez! Hurry! Get up and-" America didn't say anything, at least nothing England could make out as France's voice harried him and escaped down the stairs, vanishing out of earshot before the distant slam of the front door told him that both of them were gone. It was better this way.

At least it was better until the heat left him, the rage escaping through the wet streaks running down his cheeks. He felt cold and exhausted as the house fell quiet again, England only vaguely aware of the fact that his forehead was pressed down on the rough pills of his office's burnt and blood-stained carpet. He felt like dying...

"Mister Kirkland, please, sir, say something...!" He was alone now with the elderly Englishwoman who had taken care of his house and home for almost forty ears. An embroidered handkerchief was forced between his hand and face, aged fingers coming down through his hair as the weak bit of magic he'd summoned faded like everything else that had supported him. So he grabbed that soothing hand, he wanted to feel it wrapped up in his own, a touch-stone, a reminder of where he was.

"Heaven above, I haven't heard shouting like that since- well, sir, I can't even remember..." He didn't answer, he didn't want to speak. England didn't trust his mind or his heart or his voice right now. He just let her talk to him, the woman whose name he suddenly couldn't remember, the young maid who'd become an old matron while his face stayed the same and everything else changed completely.

Right now he was cold and he wanted this moment, not the one that had just passed. He didn't want all the dreams and the fantasies and the silly little things that had just shattered and blown up and crumbled right in front of him. The hand he wanted to feel belonged to one of his people, to a daughter of the Union Jack, to one of the millions to whom he was more than just a man and a name, more than a simple idea or a kind of feeling. He wanted to be here in his home with his child and forget absolutely everything else.

Because if he wasn't right here with her now, then he was there with the shouting. If England couldn't block out the memories then he had to remember all the times when he and America had screamed at one another like that, and he had to remember how things had ended in every, single, loop.

He had to remember never being able to get along with America when it really mattered. He was stuck with the memories of always bickering right before the Thing leapt out at them both. He was trapped in the paralyzing moment where they both realized they'd been blind-sided by sharp teeth and crushing hands.

England had to acknowledge that he'd died shouting at America too many times to count.

And Arthur Kirkland was left crying wretched, shameful tears into a bloody handkerchief, trying to remember why.

"Now, faster." France urged, nudging America down the dreary street away from England's residence. He kept checking back over his shoulder, already able to hear the sirens blaring in response to a frantic call England's house-keeper had made. France had tried to stop her, but no patriotic soul could just stand by while what sounded like a war began brewing upstairs with their Nation. She was a proud old matron, but they did not need an international incident right now. "Move."

"Stop that!" America tore his arm free of France's grip, the two of them stopping while the younger blonde spun to face him, anger fusing the cracks in his mask together while he glared. France wasn't impressed with the charade: he covered up the horror very well, but not perfectly. He was running scared and they both knew it.

"Explain what that was," France demanded, making sure his English was as blunt as possible. Now was not the time to hope America remembered his French roots. The youngster only evaded with his eyes, saying nothing and forcing France to point back in the direction they'd come and repeat: "Explain it to me! Put in words what you just did!"

"I don't answer to you!"

"Who else are you going to talk to?" France snapped, giving chase when America turned and started storming off down the lane again. Good, at least he was moving, but he wasn't going to get away. "Who else have you spoken to? Not Canada, he's said as much. Not England because after three months apart you just kicked him in the face!" Not to say that France hadn't done worse in the past, but for god's sake he could have chosen a better time for it!

"He attacked me first!"

"Did he? Explain." He repeated, breathing down America's neck trying to get the younger nation to open up. "Speak! Say something! This silence isn't healthy and you-"

France didn't expect America to stop, pivot and slam his fist into his jaw, so there was no way he could stop it when it happened. There was a difference between being smacked by a "frenemy" like England and having a sore spot on your jaw, and taking a real punch like that one. France's mind exploded with red and in the next moment the European nation found himself half-collapsed against an iron fence, weakly clinging to the bars with one hand and trying to keep himself up off the wet pavement. His jaw was washed with pain and his teeth felt like they were humming in his skull, tingling and hot with blood from his tongue.

"Don't you dare try and order me around! Just mind your own god-damned business!" France almost didn't hear America's words over the echo of what was probably his brain smashing against the inside of his skull, but he saw the stiff shoulders of an outraged world power as the boy-hero stormed away.

He had no idea what had just happened, but it was bad.

It was all very, very bad...

Bringing stuff together next chapter, and by the way yes: England was tots signing rights agreements dealing with Doctor Who and Sherlock.

-Repost, September 18, 2012.