Shattered, Memories, Thousand Years.

For some reason I did a bunch of editing on this chapter after I loaded it to the Doc Manager. That's not what the DM is for, but now my harddrive copy and the online copy are different. I mean like 2-3 pages different.

Bugger.

Recovery

Bloodshot

Romano dealt with it, he chose to. He could have left it to Papa or Seborga, but it wasn't their house and America wasn't their problem.

Besides, he needed those two to focus on Veneziano, to get him cleaned up and put to bed. Romano had washed several outfits pulled from his brother's drawers already and had laid out several compulsive options on the bed the way he had with the food. Shorts, sweat-pants, sleeveless shirts, sweaters, etc., whatever Veneziano wanted to wear, and he left them on the bed after he turned down the covers and the fresh sheets. But with that done there was nothing else for Romano to do upstairs, and he wasn't going to change his mind about giving his brother a bit of god-damned space.

So in the meantime, Romano could deal with America.

"Do you want me to call your brother?" He hadn't heard a word of English since America'd shown up, not even upstairs when they'd been talking, so Romano switched to the dominant language now. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, peering into his living room and the blonde super-power hunched over his knees, head in his hands and utterly miserable on Romano's couch.

"Why bother? I know what he'd say." America, truth be told, looked like someone who'd been standing some place very far away for a long time now, and didn't know how to come back. He wouldn't even look up at Romano when he spoke. "I'll get out of your hair in a minute, I just..."

"No need." America couldn't see it, but the Italian shrugged after making his comment, leaving his guest to stew with just the words. "Didja eat?"

"...What?"

"Eat. Food. The shit I made for you idiots, did you have any?" There. It was easier to speak once he got the insults flowing, and America huffed softly before rubbing his eyes.

"A little bit. Why?"

Romano wondered why it was so easy to keep his temper in check right now, he should have been pissed with America's sulking tone.

"Because he wants you to stay." It was true. Romano had watched everything from the top of the stairs, then ducked into his bedroom until he heard the bathroom door close behind his brothers. If Veneziano had wanted America to get out, then America wouldn't still be in the house. Veneziano would have either stood dumb or done something to make Papa or Seborga kick America out, not made that slow, careful gesture to their brother for the foreigner to stay with them. "So if you're gonna stay then you're gonna eat. And get some sleep, damn it, you look like shit."

"What?" America was looking at him now, the bastard finally lifting his head and staring with bloodshot blue eyes. Annoyed, the Italian scowled and folded his arms tight over his chest. "I can't stay here, I-"

"Kitchen. Get."

"But, Romano, I-" Romano marched across his own living room, reached out one hand, and before America knew what was happening the southern half of the Republic of Italy had the single most powerful nation on earth by the ear and was dragging him to his feet. "Ow- ow! Lay off! What are you-?"

"You're going to eat and then you're going to call your fucking boss." He didn't let go of that twisted ear, if he did then America would probably turn around and slam him into a wall, so Romano abused and dragged the other nation until they were back in the kitchen. "And tell him that you've got important shit to do over here with the Italian Recovery plan." Using his hold to lever the American down into a chair, Romano pulled over the cheese and bread from before and finally took his fingers away from the other nation's head.

"I don't..." America was missing brain-cells if he couldn't figure out what to do with bread and cheese, South Italy glowering over the larger, stronger nation as he stared blankly at the food. "Why? Why are you helping me? All I've done since-"

"Idiot." Romano didn't want to hear it, so he hissed the word over America's stupid self-pity. "I know the kinds of shit you've been getting into across Europe, so fucking eat and shut up already." Reaching over the America's shoulder, South Italy tore off a piece of the home-made loaf and then cut a slab of cheese off to go with it, folding one into the other like he was fixing up a snack for a small child.

When America tried to argue, Romano let him open his mouth and then shoved the food in right between his teeth.

"He wants you to stay, asshole."

"Why?" Romano was actually pleased with himself for getting America to eat. For some reason the super-power hadn't blown his top yet or tried to strangle him for man-handling him like this. He was just miserable, chewing the food slowly like it was getting stuck in his mouth and muddling up his words. He was pretty fucking docile for a dangerous hot-head.

"Doesn't matter why, just do what he said." Or implied, if America wanted to get technical. Idiot. "Now stay right there and eat, damn it."

"Where are you-?" Romano started walking away and paused when he heard America swing around in his chair, the bags under the kid's eyes demanding some kind of sympathy that the Italian was barely willing to tolerate. But he had to, because financial aid and world politics aside, the young nation sitting at his dining room table had just brought his little brother back home...

"How many rooms do you think this place has, asshole?" Snapping the words back over his shoulder, America was staring at him like he didn't understand basic English, and Romano mentally checked to see if he'd switched back to Italian without noticing. He hadn't. "We've only got one guest room and that's taken, so I'm going to make up the couch for you and when you're done eating you're going to fucking sleep."

Decision made, asshole.

He wouldn't undress in front of them. He wouldn't even take off his coat while Seborga was still in the bathroom. The bathwater had cooled off significantly before the Vatican finally ushered his youngest son out of the tiled chamber and turned again to the wounded one.

"May I see your hands?" It was the only part of him that they were allowed to touch; the dirty, calloused hands he'd worked raw in the weeks since the incident. Veneziano just stood paralyzed in the corner for a long moment after he asked the question. He glanced skittishly between the warm water and the locked door, then finally nodded and carefully held his hands out for inspection.

The cardinal wasn't interested in the grime. The filth covering his son's body could easily be washed away with soap and hot water, both of which were waiting for him in the tub. No. What he was concerned with right now was a different kind of filth, a specific sort of pollution, and the one which he was sure was keeping the other nation so uncomfortably tense in front of him.

Slipping off his silver crucifix, the representation of the holy church gathered his son's hands between his own. He cupped Veneziano's palms together and then slid the silver between them, holding fast when the younger nation jerked away from the talisman. Vatican hushing him softly when Veneziano turned wide, terrified eyes on him.

"Calm... calm... do you remember what I said downstairs?" Veneziano was shaking so terribly that the Holy See didn't know whether to let go or try holding on tighter, but he made himself stay as he was. The fear had a source, an origin which Romano had been too ashamed to describe with words, one that made Seborga go pale and shiver whenever Vatican asked if he'd seen something in his dreams. Vatican knew of the monster that had taken the face of someone Veneziano had loved, but the rest he had inferred from the scars on his son's sleeping body, the shame in his brothers' eyes, and the absolute terror gripping him right now.

"There was a time, yes, when God could not see you." It felt like sacrilege, and on some level it must have been blasphemy, but he couldn't change what they were both certain of. "But he did not abandon you, my child." There were tears again, silent, exhausted things that stung Veneziano's bloodshot eyes and forced his gaze down to the silver piece cradled in his hands. The cross didn't burn his skin where he touched it though, and even if a simple piece of silver couldn't take away the sin, it could remind him that such things could be forgiven.

"God as my witness, Feliciano," his son looked up so quickly at the name, that personal, secret name, that the pleading look on his face almost scattered the Vatican's thoughts. "God as my witness, I will never forgive the creature that harmed you, and I will not let it haunt you anymore."

It was a slow and painful process, weaving the silver chain around Veneziano's right wrist to match the resin set around his left. But with his son's hands holding his tightly the Holy See let the broken soul rest his head down on his shoulder. They were both completely silent as he wept for a few more moments, his frail body refusing to come close enough to be held. It was only after Veneziano calmed down that he allowed himself to be coaxed towards the water.

It took chaste, careful hands to take away the jacket and the mish-mash of clothing he was wearing underneath it. A businessman's blazer and a young woman's shawl came away before the straps from the denim cover-alls were pulled off his shoulders, the filthy boots abandoned without socks, until finally Veneziano was resting weakly against the side of the tub wearing only the bandages and night-clothes he'd had on the 4th of November. The Vatican City State didn't comment when he saw the blood and tear in the off-yellow shoulder of the tee-shirt; the wound that had bled out had healed over already, nothing but a discoloured circle of raised flesh visible on his son's body as North Italy slowly inched the garment off.

Romano had put barely enough soap in the water to give it scent, so when Veneziano carefully slipped into the bath he hissed more from the warmth on his cold flesh than from the sting of the bath-salts on his few remaining open wounds. The deep basin swallowed him whole, Vatican coaxing him slowly to let his right hand fall under the water despite the presence of the silver cross- it could handle a bit of soap, but the left was kept out and Veneziano resisted submerging his shoulders in order to protect it.

Like a fool, South Italy had failed to bring out a first-aid kit, but as Vatican tracked down the fresh gauze and supplies himself the Micro-nation felt forgiving. The heat and subtle scent in the bath-water together were enough to calm Veneziano down when he came over with the items, calmly asking permission with his eyes before daring to touch the abused limb. The man in the bath didn't so much consent as he did carefully reach up and try undoing the knotted brown gauze himself, but he didn't fight off Vatican's touch when he took over for him.

The wounds were... healing. That was about as much as he could say. The initial gun-shot to his upper arm was still obviously trying to repair itself, having graduated from an open sore to a half-mended rip through the tender muscle.

"Can you move your fingers?" He asked quietly, watching Veneziano slowly make a fist, then separate his fingers one by one. They move stiffly and each gesture took time to form, but like the bullet wound over his elbow his arm was slowly getting better. The tear down his forearm had finally closed but the stitches that had held it together had no impact on how it had healed, the deep rift running jaggedly down the split limb. The flesh was puckered and an angry red colour, the remains of those threads and knots showing where the stitches had broken from additional stress, or were still embedded after a month of poor care and neglect. It was obviously sensitive to the touch, but the entire limb would have to be cleaned...

Later. They would deal with it later, not now.

With a deep breath, Veneziano slid his disfigured arm under the still surface of the bath-water, wincing sharply and giving a hiss before he made himself relax, slowly inching down the back of the tub until the bullet wound was covered too. All the grime on his skin was already turning the water cloudy, but once he'd settled a bit more he accepted a soft rag and gingerly began scrubbing himself clean. He seemed exhausted before he was half-done his own torso and neck, but Vatican kept his distance just the same.

"Do you want to cut your hair?" It was long now, the red locks going just past his chin instead of hovering around his ears like they were supposed to. With a small jug and silent permission, Vatican poured more hot water over his son's head to help wash him, his auburn hair quickly twisting itself into subtle curls and long waves as it was doused.

He didn't respond to the question right away, lathering up his head and working the suds awkwardly into his scalp. He was struggling with it though, his right hand fumbling and losing strength. He had to stop several times just to lean against the tub and catch his breath, until finally Vatican offered to help him. Veneziano refused.

Patience, and he carefully crouched down next to the tub, waiting for his silent son to look at him again. Finally, in a soft voice he asked:

"Do you trust me, Veneziano?"

And his son took a deep breath before, of all things, he shook his head no.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn't expect, a sharp pain he wasn't used to feeling and couldn't quiet explain the origin of. Nations were not, by nature, the most trusting entities, but Vatican was used to his political status as something outside the usual schema, something beyond borders and alliances and international laws. He was used to individual groups within nations looking at him with disdain or making a challenge towards him, and he responded in kind, but from a nation itself? From Italy? He...

Vatican wasn't sure where he was looking in the bathroom, but when he felt one dripping hand tug on his sleeve he looked up again. Veneziano was staring blankly at nothing, brown suds slipping down his forehead, but he made a fist and extended two fingers, then made a clipping motion with them.

"Scissors?" Veneziano nodded, but his eyes remained focused on the edge of the tub. He could barely sit up straight, but he seemed determined...

Getting up, Vatican padded around the tub until he found the abandoned gauze and supplies, pulling a slim pair of steel scissors from the pile before coming back to his son's side. Veneziano had his good arm hooked over the edge of the tub to keep himself up now, struggling to raise the left one up out of the cooling bathwater. He was confused when the weakened nation opened his hand for the instrument, but Vatican handed them over and quietly watched.

It didn't make any sense, the way he began pawing at his hair with his clumsy, broken hand. His half-washed hair was tangled and slippery, but Veneziano winced sharply when his fingers found whatever they were looking for. The left side of his head? He brought the scissors up...

"Veneziano?" His right hand had the dexterity to part the blades and place them right up against his, wait- "What are you doing-!"

Veneziano winced sharply, but the scissors closed around one lock of hair before Vatican could stop him. Pain lanced the other body and Vatican felt fear riding the wave of sympathy that washed over him, fear that this was too much, fear that after everything that had happened, this act was too much for any of them. The scissors dropped into the murky bathwater before Veneziano pulled his hand away from his hair, a long lock of curled red coming down until it was left floating on the soap suds.

Cutting hair was hardly irreversible, even if it was thathair, but the issue was not the result, it was the act. Veneziano kept his eyes closed, his body twisting as he dropped his head to the edge of the bath. Vatican reached down to cup his face with one hand, suddenly worried that the stress and exhaustion might send him slipping down under the surface. It was a foolish thought, but it was there, and it didn't go away until he felt Veneziano strain his left hand again, rigid fingers looking for his to hold before he felt a kiss on his palm.

By God he did not want honour and respect right now. Vatican wanted his dopey, idiot son back, the one who would jump on him with hugs or make fun of him for trying to cook, the one with a radiant grin and fancy-free laugh.

He didn't want this anymore, he didn't want any of this, he never had. He embodied the belief in one life that will lead to one rebirth and everlasting joy for the pious and torment for the sinners. He did not want to hear that his son was dead, but he was really alive, but he was going to die, but he was only asleep, but he was gone for good, but now he was home. Two thousand years of religion and politics and fighting was worth nothing in the face of all of this...

Vatican didn't care that there was soap on his face. He didn't care that there was dirty, oily water on his cheek and nose as he pressed his lips against wet, tangled red hair. He cared that his son didn't trust him anymore, that he was scared of him, scared that he would- would what, exactly? Hate him? Condemn him? Blame him? Hurt him?

He closed his eyes because he felt Veneziano move his head just enough so he was leaning on him again. He kept them closed because the pain in his eyes felt like tears.

"We... should get you to bed." He rasped, placing one hand on the back of Veneziano's head, his other hand resting on his bare shoulder, high above the wounds maiming his arm. It took several long, silent moments before Veneziano even tried to acknowledge his voice, his weight resting awkwardly on Vatican's shoulder and arm while he took deep, slow breaths. He was completely exhausted...

Eventually Veneziano managed to lean back against the edge of the tub again, Vatican protecting his eyes with one hand as he emptied another jug of water over his hair to rinse away the soap. He hadn't been allowed to touch his hair before, but without the curl Veneziano didn't seem to care anymore. Once that was done, the rest of him could have stood to be rinsed off too, but just Vatican fished the plug out of the murky water without comment. More than anything else he needed to sleep, and he'd need more help getting there than he would taking another bath tomorrow.

In the same vein: if his arm could wait until Veneziano was dressed and bundled up under the blankets in his room, then his hair could take days to address without concerning anyone. The red strands slipped down the drain without another thought, and the Micro-nation carefully helped his son stand up instead of worrying about his own foolish, late-in-coming questions and pains.

So, armed with a thick towel the Holy See helped his exhausted son out of deep tub. He still had both the rosary and the silver cross with him, and the father slipped both around his child's neck without comment, wrapping him up in two separate towels before taking his good arm and helping balance him on his way to the hall.

Seborga was still hovering outside when they opened the door, hurrying ahead of them into the bedroom. It would have been better for Veneziano to let them dress him, but once he was seated on the bed, he mechanically reached for the first piece of clothing and pulled it over his head, ignoring Seborga's question about whether he wanted pants or shorts. They couldn't touch him while he fought to cover himself up, but when Vatican tried to slip out briefly he was called back by a soft gasp and a very lucid stare.

"Why don't we let it dry some more before we deal with it? Is that okay?" Seborga was choking on his words when he asked about the mangled scar running down his brother's arm. The tears made the green in his eyes stand out vividly, and his hands were shaking as he pulled the thin sheets and thick quilts over his sibling's legs and waist. Veneziano's brown eyes were barely open, but he just gave a slow, heavy nod to answer the question. Either he didn't notice, or he just didn't mind that the mutilated limb was exposed in front of them...

The bedroom curtains had been drawn shut so they would block the late afternoon light pouring in from the street, the window closed to keep the crisp December air away and hold back the noise of the cars going by. This room had been sealed for months, Romano only having finally opened it when he received America's call. Everything had been dusted and wiped down, tidied up to the point where it was almost too clean to be comfortable, but that wasn't South Italy's fault.

"Do you want us to go and let you sleep?" For a moment Veneziano didn't move, but Vatican noticed his right hand groping slowly for Seborga's. It seemed like a no. "Then I'll stay right here, okay?" A squeeze, so that was probably a yes. The younger Micro-nation sank down onto the edge of the bed, both of his hands wrapped around his brother's right and holding on gently.

"...Veneziano?" Nothing. "Brother..."

"Let him rest..." Speaking softly, the Holy See brought his hands down gently on Seborga's shoulders, the two of them watching their family member lay reclined on pillows and swaddled in fresh blankets, his scarred face relaxed and framed by damp, tangled red locks. His eyes were closed and he was taking long, slow breaths.

Neither one asked the other what would happen if he didn't open those eyes again...

Canada was not a fan of waking up early. He was a nation of builders and wilderness-conquering explorers, or at least that was how he'd grown up, but there just wasn't much sense in waking up too long before the sun did. Maybe half an hour before dawn. Maybe. Enough time to wake up and shower before the sun started wasting daylight over the horizon, but otherwise no; Canada liked to sleep.

Especially in winter. Especially with the Christmas season ramping up from coast to coast.

So who was calling him at almost 4am? Well if the strong arm around his waist was any indication, then it wasn't Russia. Groping blindly in the dark for the phone buzzing on the night table, the Canadian was tempted to huck the electronic against the wall for daring to wake him up, but when he pressed it to his ear and spoke he was habitually civil.

"H... Hello?" Slurring the greeting, Canada was doing his civic duty and quietly focused on himself for a moment, looking for the spots of tension in his political frame-work, or the labour troubles that had been cramping his leg for the last few days. Was there anything explosive going on? Any fast-rising tempers? A little bit. But none of it felt new.

"Oi, are you awake?" Who was that..?

"Yes?"

"Good, you need to answer something." Huh?

"I... Italy?" That accent, the straight-forward style... Canada checked his bedside clock and groaned. "Italy it's not even five here, what do you want?"

"When was the last time your brother slept?" What? Oh no...

"What's he done now?" Italy was probably calling from Rome, which meant America was somewhere in the country, so Canada would have to book a flight out to-

"Oi, answer the question: when does he sleep?"

"At night?" What was going on?

"Very funny, jerk."

"He's in Europe, I'm in Ottawa." So where did Italy get off making demands out of nowhere? "I don't know, ask him yourself."

There was a huff through the phone, but no real answer.

"Fine, if you're not gonna help then I'll figure it out myself."

"What?" Behind him, Canada felt Russia shift heavily on the mattress and press his face to the back of the blonde's neck. "What are you talking about?" Figure out what? What did America's sleeping habits have to do with anything? He was always early to bed and early to rise, it was one of his mottos. "Italy?"

"Listen, with all the shit I've been dealing with are you really gonna admit that you jerks can't keep a fucking eye out for one another?" There was a difference between Italy being grumpy and Italy actually getting mad, and Canada slowly sat up when he realized he was dealing with the latter. "So fuck it, go back to sleep if it means that much to you, he's just your fucking brother."

Sleepy as he was, the words stung and Canada couldn't feel his temper well enough to make it burn. The line went dead before he could think of anything to say, sitting cold and awkward in his bed staring down at the smart-phone in his hand. The mattress shifted again and Russia sat up next to him, yawning quietly and stretching a little before ultimately wrapping Canada up in his arms again, a slow, sleepy way of asking what was wrong.

"Matvey?" He didn't know how to answer his own name, paralysed between getting up and placing a call to Washington, or just lying back down and waiting for a decent hour.

"I don't know..." He answered softly, slowly twisting around and placing a hand on Russia's chest. With a gentle push, the two of them slipped back down onto the plush mattress, Canada laying his head down on the other nation's chest and feeling the warmth through Russia's thin night-shirt. He kept the phone in his hand, thumb brushing back and forth over the Blackberry's dark screen, but he couldn't think.

"Does Italy need something?" He'd called without checking time-zones, and he'd hung up after making a spiteful comment. Canada should have dismissed it but instead he wiggled down closer to Russia and buried his face in his shoulder, trying to escape the words. "Is it America?" He didn't want to hear those words either...

"He's just my brother..." Italy's sharp, bitter, angry words...

There are two pages in the middle that are, sadly, hot-off-the-press writing so might have more errors than normal. This is because Vatican had a month to come up with Papa feels, but chose to let it all come out when I came back to edit out a tiny detail about hair to comply with later chapters. I had him wash Feli's hair without any kind of comment, but had hair be an issue in like... 24 or something, so I came to change that, and I got this. Bad Vatican, bad.

Not as bad as Spain though. Next chapter is the Spain chapter, so I'm just going to sit here and hiss at him.

Review? Even a little one? I'll see everyone next week, I'm off to work on Chapter 21 and get ready for Practicum!