December, 1940

London was burning.

In some moments, England could draw breath, and think about what was happening, and attempt to implement solutions. Others, he was gasping for breath, as new burns started eating at his very flesh. On those nights, he prayed for an end, for help- though he truthfully did not expect aid from anyone. His allies were busy fighting their own battles, the countries who had declared neutrality were carefully avoiding all contact...

Then came the miracle.

Despite the past, Canada had stepped in to help.

Matthew's eyes had lost some of the coldness and anger that had been very much evident the last time Arthur had seen him, and as he personally came in with his pilots to survey the damage, his greeting was almost friendly.

"Arthur." said Matthew, "Holding up then?"

"Some nights better than others," Arthur replied. "How is-"

"Where would you like your munitions and medical supplies stored?" Matthew asked abruptly, "I've got to get my squadron billeted, and help prepare defenses."

"The what?" Arthur blinked unintelligently. He'd been radioed about the military actions, the aid that was being sent- but munitions and medicine... Well, he supposed that Canada would help supply their own.

Matthew gave a shrug, gesturing to a cargo plane taxiing to a halt on the besieged runway.

England gaped at the familiar red, white and blue flag on the nose of the craft, temporarily speechless. He knew the markings, but he'd never expected to see them here. On his own land.

"America is still neutral." Canada said shortly, "You can pay the idiot later."

Matthew marched away before Arthur could ask him anything more.

But that had been this morning. This evening was proving to be quieter than usual. Half- seven, and no sirens. Those would come later. Instead of hunkering down in a shelter to let his wounds heal and get some rest, Arthur went out to spend time among his people. He would not let that bastard run him down, and keep him cowed. He was England, damnit. He would not be trampled so easily.

Next thing he knew, it was half- nine, and the people in his company were laughing. He could've been drunk on their high spirits alone, let alone the two pints he'd consumed. A group of pilots, most likely one of the group of Canadians were leading a drinking song as he slipped out of the pub to head back to his quarters.

Arthur had seen enough to know that he was not alone, and that made him just a little less morose than he'd been this morning.

Less than halfway there, the sirens screamed.

With his system fogged by alcohol and the remnants of the camaraderie of his people, Arthur pressed onwards, certain he would make shelter long before the bombs started hitting his city again. It was a mistake that he didn't realize until the first bombs caught him, shaking him to the core.

So quickly. He thought, falling to the pavement in front of the building. The pain was dulled by the booze, but it still would not allow him to take those final steps, to call out for aid...

If there were an explosion too close...

"Fucking /hell/." The faint sound of voices was coming closer- from outside? But everyone was supposed to be – "I told you to stay in the shelter, you fucking moron."

Accented. Familiar.

Another voice replied, presumably, but Arthur couldn't hear the voice over the sound of fire and explosions. His eyes closed as another stripe of pure fire rolled over him.

"Fine. Stick close, and as soon as we make sure he's in the shelter, we'll get back to the base. I've got to get my ass in the air. I don't have time to be- Shit."

Canada.

Matthew.

England tried to open his eyes, and failed.

"Shit. Shit-" Arthur tried to summon up the effort to tell his former charge to stop swearing.

Failed.

"I don't know how we're going to get him-"

A soft reply.

"I don't—" Matthew sighed, the soft reply apparently continuing. "Okay. You win. You carry him, but you're still shipping out in the morning. Allons-y."

Awkwardly, England felt himself lifted, held carefully.

Another hand groped past his back, to the arm of the man carrying him, as they moved forward.

"Steps." Matthew's voice again, "Six."

Somewhere between the first step and the last, Arthur lost consciousness, and fell back into a nightmare.

The figure stood over him, blood-soaked and torn, a gaping wound where his eyes used to be. As he fell, Arthur reached out to catch him.

"You did this..." the whisper came to him, "You did this to me-"

"I didn't mean for this to happen—" Arthur protested, "I didn't want this-"

"I know." The voice said softly, the dream changing, "I understand."

Halfway between waking and unconsciousness, he felt a hand touch his forehead, his cheek. So gentle.

"Rest now." someone told him.

And he did.

When Arthur awakened next, he was alone.