A week.

An entire fucking week of trying to find out where the Americans had taken his brother.

Matthew was not happy. He was dirty, tired and sore- some woman had tossed an entire bucket of water at him when he'd appeared, and six men had run him out of one of the small towns he'd been trying to get information in. And all the while, the faint pulse of the echo of headache had not diminished. If anything, it was getting worse- not as bad as the initial contact, however. It was still getting more and more difficult to block it out so he could see.

He knew, once he'd come to the first one of the towns that was touched by the war that it was a mistake to have run so swiftly from the British camps. He should have taken time to find something other than his uniform to wear. It was cold, however, and as comparatively mild as America's winters were, Matthew did not want to be without proper clothing. Even though the people treated him with mistrust and outright suspicion and hostility, he kept the jacket.

So now, sitting in the remains of someone's garden, he was nearly pulling his hair as he tried to figure out what to do next. The weather was getting colder, his horse needed shelter- as did he- and he was no closer to-

The sound of footsteps through dead grass made the train of thought derail, as Canada's body tensed, going on a high state of alert. If this were anything like the last three encounters...

"The war is over, young man." The voice said, in a tone that was hardly friendly. But at the same time, not hostile either. "You should be heading home, not making camp. Unless you've decided to emigrate."

"I'm not leaving until I find my brother." Matthew said firmly, (Where did this courage come from, this feeling of confidence? He didn't care, so long as he could find Alfred...) He scrambled to his feet. "He was wounded- I don't care if you hate me or England, if he dies without knowing that I love him I will never forgive myself."

The man staring him down was ordinary. Dark hair showing the graying of age, as he stared up at Matthew with a gaze full of intensity and a sharpness that reminded him of how England would ferret out any lies that he or Alfred had told when they were small. He held that gaze, lifting his chin slightly in defiance. Daring the man to say more, or to make fun of his feelings-

To his surprise, the man's stern expression lightened to a faint smile that crinkled around the dark eyes- no less intense now, but the sharpness had been subdued.

"I see that George was correct." A nod to the weary head, "You'll do. Come with me."

"W-what?" Matthew stared as the man turned abruptly. "What do you- I'm not going anywhere until-"

"You want to see him, don't you?" The man cast a glance over his shoulder. "You do resemble him greatly, Canada. One of the men will see to your animal."

"How-" Matthew's eyes were wide as he stumbled after the man, "Who are you, and how do you-"

"John Adams. I'm not normally one for subtle words, however in this case I'm certain you understand if I don't automatically trust or attack a Colony who sided with the Nation that is responsible for the state of my own Nation." They reached a dirt street, and a ramshackle farm wagon. "Too much risk involved, especially considering... George wanted to bring you in as soon as he found out that you were looking."

"George-"

"General Washington." Adams climbed in ahead of Matthew, reaching a hand down, "Come now. As much as having you as a hostage would improve the chances of getting a better outcome on the final treaties, and perhaps calm some of the fighting that is still going on between our more stubborn patriots and England's more belligerent forces, this is more important."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind, sir." Matthew gave a quick glance back along the street, only seeing a few of America's citizens and the few soldiers who had escorted his host. "My brother's condition though-"

The lines on Adams' face tightened, a wince as he took the reins and prodded the horses into a trot. That... did not bode well.

"What have you heard?"

"I- only heard that he fell, and England was covered in blood-" Matthew stopped. He hadn't heard much, so how could he explain-

"Then the British camps know nothing of the nature of America's wounds."

"England knows something, but he wouldn't know that Al's getting worse..."

There was a sharp glance at that, but Adams merely nodded.

"Twins often times are connected beneath the skin." Adams said, "A God-given link that makes them closer than merely brothers. That is why... perhaps you can help. I was concerned that you were not truly connected, and would merely be looking to hasten things, so that … our little republic would die, and our population become a part of you, and thereby England's once again."

"I don't want Al to die, sir." Matthew could feel the tears forming, "But if he does, I- we argued the last time I saw him, and I don't want it to be the last thing we ever- If he- it would be like losing a part of myself, and I couldn't-"

"Calmly, dear Canada." Adams gathered the straps in one hand, and laid a hand on his shoulder, "Alfred is strong, and young. There is still a good chance that ..."

"Call me Matthew, please, Mr. Adams. It would be easier- " Matthew sniffed back the tears that were still threatening, "And please... just tell me what I'm going to be seeing, so I don't cry in front of Al. He doesn't need me to be sniveling while he's ..."

Mr. Adams did precisely that.

Matthew, for his part, listened, and wondered for the rest of their journey if he was really strong enough, would ever be strong enough to keep from crying.

But this was for his twin. He would have to be strong enough for them both.