America was more than half way to the hospital before he realized that he had forgotten to put on his shoes. However, this realization didn't seem to stop him, because he did not turn back to grab them. In his mind, that would have been too much time wasted.
In fact, Alfred was so focused on getting to the hospital that he didn't even mind (much) when the hotel receptionist's face showed a look of complete disbelief as he charged out of the hotel lobby, wearing only his pyjamas and jacket. His lack of shoes only added to her confusion.
As it was still early in the morning, there weren't many people about. However, the few people that happened to pass by, likely on their way to work or on some sort of early morning trip, each gave him a look similar to the receptionist's. A look of confusion, surprise, and disbelief. The typical politeness that a stranger usually gives to another was seemingly forgotten, as most did not bother to hide the fact that they were staring, but America did not care for their opinions; he was a man on a mission.
And that mission was Arthur.
So far, Alfred had been law abiding during his journey to the hospital, other than occasionally running into a flustered pedestrian as he made his way down the street. But the stoplight he was currently waiting at was testing his patience.
"C'mon, C'mon...!" He mumbled impatiently and a bit incoherently as he drummed his fingers on his pants, his foot also tapping furiously. To a passerby, he would just look like the typical person in a hurry, but his tapping was also laced with worry and concern.
Even though Alfred couldn't see any cars coming to pass through the green light, it did not show any sign of changing anytime soon. It seemed to America that the little white walking man was taunting him with its existence.
Finally, America couldn't take the waiting anymore. Letting out an exasperated sigh, though the light was still red, he started walking swiftly across the intersection. He didn't bother to look both ways before crossing, his mind too preoccupied, even though this was a vital skill that England had taught him back when he was a colony.
The screeching of tires to his right caused him to turn mid-step, where a pair of blinding headlights filled his sights. Temporarily blinded by the sudden light in the darkness of the morning, America was frozen like a deer in the headlights until he came to his senses, launching himself onto the sidewalk, landing hard.
"Look where you're going, moron!" A male voice shouted angrily from the vehicle as it drove past. Regaining his vision, the black ebbing out of his eyes, he looked at where he was standing just moments ago, and noticed the black tire marks on the road. He smelled the acrid stench of burning rubber as he lay on the ground, trying to catch his breath.
Well, that was stupid of me, he thought as he got his breathing in check.
"S-sir, are you okay?" A quiet, timid voice whispered.
At first Alfred thought that the voice might belong to a small child, "Yeah", he answered, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, "I'm fine, it's-" He began, looking upwards, where his gaze met that of two violet eyes.
"America?" Canada, the owner of the violet eyes, inquired.
"Canada?" America was as equally confused to see Canada here, of all places. Was he at the conference meeting yesterday? Had it only been yesterday that he had seen England?
It seems like such a long time ago...
"America! How could you pull such a stunt! Why couldn't you have just waited patiently for the light to change like everybody else? Did you even look both ways? That was very idiotic of you!" Canada's naturally-quiet rambling jolted him from his thoughts, "Where are you even going this early in the morning? It usually takes you forever t-"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever!" America cut him off, his face growing slightly redder with embarrassment from Canada's comment as he waved his hand at him in a 'shoo' motion. Surely waking up late wasn't a bad thing, right? "I gotta go, like, nowman," He insisted as he tried to stand up.
America quickly discovered that if he tried to put any weight on his left ankle that it would hurt tremendously. In his attempts to stand, he had made the unknowing mistake and winced, lurching forwards as he lost his balance. Luckily, he fell back down unscathed.
"America!" Canada exclaimed for the third time in their short encounter, "What's wrong?"
"Hmph. I must've twisted my ankle when I made that heroic landing onto the sidewalk." America brushed of Canada's question as if it were no big deal, while Canada helped him to his feet. America tested how much weight he could put on his ankle as he leaned on Canada, who in turn struggled under his weight.
"Maple..." Canada muttered, "How many hamburgers have you been eating..." Canada looked down at America's foot, his intention to assess the damage himself; however, instead he acknowledged America's missing footwear.
"America, where are your shoes?"
"Oh, uh, I, forgot them at the, uh, hotel..."
"How can you just forget your shoes?"
America ignored the question, "C'mon, man. We gotta get to the hospital." He mumbled as he limped forwards.
"Of course we do! We need to get that ankle of yours looked at. America?" America looked at Canada, "You're going the wrong way." He stated, steering America in the right direction.
"Oh." America, in his hastened state, hadn't bothered to ask where the hospital actually was. He hadn't really needed it in his past visits to London, so he was just heading in the direction that he thought it would be, "But that's not why we need to go to the hospital."
"Eh?"
Finally getting a good look at America in the darkness, Canada had desperately tried to ignore the prominent redness in and around his eyes. However, they clearly showed him that something was wrong, because not much could make the optimistic nation this upset.
"Artie...he...um..." America bit his lip," He got...shot."
"What!?"
"Y-yeah. I was just going there to see him."
They both stood awkwardly for a moment, Canada startled at the news and processing the information. "It's this way," Canada broke the silence as they started to walk towards the hospital, America hobbling ungracefully down the street. They weren't moving as fast as America would have liked and he proceeded to make numerous comments on the topic, but they got there soon enough. What greeted them was a tall, white building, a large red 'H' sitting atop the roof.
America's pain appeared to be momentarily forgotten as he shimmied out of Canada's grasp and rushed into the hospital, leaving the Canadian to race after him. He stumbled through the door and onto the receptionist's desk, startling many other people waiting as well as the nurse behind the desk.
America was unable to form full sentences as he spat out his words, panting heavily as he leaned on the desk, "Arthur...! Eyebrows-" He raised two of his fingers to his own eyebrows, creating the impression that they were rather large, "-Where?!"
The nurse at the desk raised her eyebrow at America, clearly confused with the jumble of words that were seemingly related. The nurse glanced around America, seeing Canada, who had caught up and was standing shyly behind him. He was looking at America, disbelief playing on his features.
"Excuse me," the nurse addressed Canada, who was surprised that he had been noticed standing behind America, "But, do you know what he means?" She pointed her thumb discreetly at America.
"Oh, we would like to know where a patient by the name of 'Arthur Kirkland' is…" He replied politely and quietly.
"That's what I just said!" America exclaimed, letting out a grunt of frustration as he collapsed onto the desk.
"'Eyebrows' isn't the most efficient way to describe someone..." Canada muttered quietly, though the comment went unnoticed by the other two.
"Mhmm. Arthur Kirkland..." Both Canada and America heard the clacking of the keyboard keys as she typed in something into her computer, "Here we go. He just came in this morning. He's currently in the Emergency Department." Alfred lifted his head off of the table," I'm sorry, but he's not allowed visitors yet." An exasperated sigh was America's immediate response.
"Well, when can we see him?" America questioned impatiently.
"Once he's out of the Emergency Department, he will be allowed visitors. "
"Do you think that we could get a doctor to look at his ankle? He hurt it on the way here." Canada asked quietly, indicating America's ankle, which he was currently avoiding putting weight on.
"It's fine." America said firmly, leaning off the counter to demonstrate. He tried to stand normally, but he couldn't stop the yelp that escaped his lips. He immediately removed the weight from his ankle, balancing on one foot.
"That is not fine, America." Canada replied as he draped one of America's arms over his shoulder and put his own around his waist.
"Fiiiiiiiiiiiinnne" America whined childishly.
Canada arranged a meeting with a doctor as America made his way over to a row of waiting chairs. Soon Canada joined him, only to find America glaring at the opposite wall, his head resting on the palms of his hands.
"Alfred Jones?" A doctor asked the mostly empty room, not many others were waiting other than the two of them, as he looked up from his clipboard. America lifted himself up, with help from the uncomfortable hospital chair, and hobbled unsteadily over to where the doctor was waiting. Canada remained seated as they left.
Soon America came back, his ankle now dressed with sterile white bandages. "He says it's only sprained. I should be fine in a few days." He said when he saw Canada sit up a bit straighter, "He says that I shouldn't walk too heavily on it either."
"Well, that's some good news."
"You may see your friend now," The nurse said before America even had the chance to sit down. "He's in room '03', 4th floor, 'D' wing."
"He's not really my-" Canada put his hand over his brother's mouth, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence.
"We'll take the elevator, Al," At the mention of these words, America practically ran towards it, despite the doctors orders. There he stood waiting, repeatedly pressing the up button, even if it was just a distraction for his mind.
A quiet ding announced the arrival of said elevator; as soon as the doors opened he jumped inside, switching buttons so that he was instead repeatedly pressing the button for the 4th floor. He finally stopped when the elevator started moving. He had nearly forgotten about Canada, until he'd felt him get in the elevator with him.
America had been prepared to run out of the elevator as soon as they got to the fourth floor and the doors opened. However, he was stopped from doing so by Canada, who had grabbed the back of his shirt.
"Slow down, America," He said even quieter then usual, as not to disturb the other patients, though his voice was already quiet enough. "There are other people here."
"Yeah, yeah, let's go." America replied, not as quiet as Canada would have hoped, as he pulled away from Canada's grasp once again. Canada sighed as America dashed out of the elevator, deserting him.
"05D...04D...03D!" America mumbled-then exclaimed- as he counted the numbers above the doors. America arrived at England's room, just as the doctor was stepping out, leaving the door slightly ajar. America would've bumped into him, but the doctor noticed and stepped out of the way just in time.
"Is this Arti-Arthur's room?" He wheezed, deciding that using the Englishman's full name might give him better results.
"Yes, but, who are you, exactly?" The doctor questioned, looking at his clip board, "He has a mister 'Alfred Jones' down as his emergency contact..."
"Yeah...that's me" He answered, one hand bracing himself on the wall. Why was he his emergency contact? "I'm a... close friend?" America briefly thought of all the times he had been called an idiot by Britain, among other names. Would 'close friends' be stretching it?
"Well Mr. Jones-"
"Alfred is fine."
"-Alfred, as his contact there are a few things you should know before visiting." He flipped through the many papers on his clip board. "It seems that Mr. Kirkland has suffered a minor concussion, as well as a sprained wrist. He was shot through his right shoulder; surgery has been performed to remove the bullet as well as the fragments. He's still sleeping from the anesthetic given to him during the procedure. So far, all the signs are good ones. We expect him to make a full recovery, and he will still be able to use his shoulder to its full extent." He looked up from his clipboard, "I should tell you that although he was shot by a policeman, nobody has decided to press charges."
"Thanks."
"He's been mumbling about you in his sleep." The doctor said before he went to check on his other patients in other rooms. America raised an eyebrow.
Canada caught up to America as the doctor left and he stepped into England's room.
"Wait for me here?" America asked. Canada nodded.
America walked quietly into the room, shutting the door behind him, the constant beeping of a heart monitor greeting his ears. He looked tentatively over at England, his still form lying on the hospital bed in a seemingly peaceful slumber. His normally wild mop of hair was even messier then usual, strands of dirty blond sticking up randomly. Its appearance was aided by a bandage wrapped around his forehead, his hair also splaying out on the hospital pillow his head was resting on.
White, sterile bandages were wrapped around his right wrist, which lay limply by his side above the sheets covering the lower portion of his body. He could see more bandages on his shoulder, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them, poking out from beneath a green hospital gown. England's expression was not one that America had seen often. His eyebrows, his most prominent feature, were not furrowed together in anger of frustration. Rather they were relaxed, something that brought America great relief.
America dragged a chair over to the side of the bed, as quietly as he could. Sitting down, he gently took England's injured hand in his own, rubbing his thumb on England's in a soothing gesture.
"I really hope you're okay, dude." He said, gently tracing the lines on England's palm, his hand meeting the green hospital bracelet on his wrist soon enough, which read 'Arthur Kirkland'. His normally loud and obnoxious voice, as others would describe it, was quiet and somber.
"I don't know how this happened, Iggy, at least not the whole story. They say you were shot by a policeman. My guess is that you were wasted or something, 'cause I can't think of any other way this could have happened if you were sober, y'know?" He chuckled quietly, biting his lip afterwards in a vain attempt to stop the tears swelling at the edges of his eyes from making the journey down his cheeks.
"I-I know that nations c-can't die, at least not really... "He choked out, his attempts at stopping his tears demolished as they rolled hot down his face, dripping off onto the bandages on England's wrist, "But it's hard to see you like this..." America lightly squeezed England's hand, trying to provide some comfort without hurting him. Whether the comfort was for himself or England's sake, he wasn't sure. He brushed some stray hair away from hanging in England's eyes. He looked down at his hands, sitting in silence for quite a while.
"D-don't c-c-cry, America..." England whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes only half open as he weakly lifted his other arm to wipe away the offending tears left on America's face, revealing an IV taped to the back of his left hand.
"England..." America touched England's hand to his face for a moment, wiping his eyes, before England collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh. America picked up on the hoarseness in England's voice, filling up a glass of water. After England's initial refusal to accept help from America to drink it, America managed to help him drink the water.
"W-where am I?" England asked with his eyes closed. He reached up a hand to his head, which was throbbing, to discover the bandage wrapped around it, "Does it seem bright in here to you?"
"You're in the hospital, Art. You were shot." America replied, "It's not even that light out, yet..." He muttered, confused.
"Shot? How-" England vaguely remembered bits and pieces of the last night. Scotch...foggy memories of a new bartender... Spain and his pirate days... and faces moving in and out of his vision as he lay on the floor. He did start to notice a dull pain in his shoulder. He craned his head to look at it, finding that it was dressed with bandages. His sight soon moved down to his injured wrist, and he winced as he tried to move it.
"My guess is that you were drunk..." America said blatantly, a small smirk forming on his face.
"That would explain why I don't remember much of last night..." England grumbled, almost to himself. And why it seems so bright. He tried to sit up, a difficult task to accomplish in his weakened state. Nevertheless, with his stubbornness, he was able to prop himself up, America moving his pillow into a more comfortable and supporting position.
"Ugh." he moaned, as he rested his head on the back of the hospital bed. He felt groggy, the world beginning to spin around him from the blood rushing out of his head. A wave of nausea hit him and he swallowed it down with some difficulty, bringing his hand back to his head. He hoped that it would pass.
"Hey Iggy, you feeling okay?" America inquired, scooting forwards until he was on the edge of his seat.
"It's England, dammit..." He mumbled irritably. This was the worst hangover he'd had in a while, not at all aided by the fact that he was in a hospital. He certainly did not feel fine, but admitting that to America would destroy what dignity he had left. "Pass me the waste bin." He demanded, pointing to the small waste bin in the corner of the room.
"Okay..." America said hesitantly, a bewildered expression crossing his face. Getting up, he crossed the space between the bed and the garbage bin swiftly, bringing it back to England, "But, why do you need it?"
England grabbed it as soon as it was within his grasp, "Because I think I'm going to-" He wasn't able to explain before he bent over and vomited into the small waste bin.
America sat awkwardly, not experienced in these types of situations, as England vomited up the contents of his stomach from the night before. America gently patted him on the back, occasionally rubbing circles. England forcefully placed the garbage can down beside his bed once he was done retching. He flopped back into sitting position with a moan, one hand on top of his stomach.
"Do you have any aspirin?" England asked as he closed his eyes.
"No. Why?"
"Apparently somebody has had a hangover..." He mumbled, just loud enough for America to hear, as he turned away from him and looked out the window. Still low in the sky, the soft orange glow of the sun was just visible between the buildings.
"What happened to your foot?" England inquired, not turning away from the view, an orange glow being cast across his face. He had noticed America's sock clad feet and newly wrapped ankle when he had put down the garbage can.
"Huh? Oh! On my way hear I almost got run over by a car for walking through a red light. But, being the hero, I dodged epically out of the way!" The last part America yelled as he fist pumped the air, the volume of his voice hurting England's currently sensitive ears, partially due to the hangover and part from the concussion.
"Y-you WHAT?" England exclaimed, the heart monitor by the bed accelerating rapidly as he sat bolt upright. He turned and leaned closer to America as he began to make wild hand gestures, exerting much of his energy, as well as putting a strain on his wrist and shoulder.
"Wo-Woah woah. Calm down dude." He said as he carefully pushed England back down onto the bed, being mindful of his shoulder and glancing worriedly at the heart monitor, "I already got this lecture from Canada..."
"Canada?" England asked with an exasperated sigh, allowing himself to be pushed back into the bed. All of this excessive flailing had tired him out.
"Yeah, y'know, quiet, has a polar bear. We met on the sidewalk after I almost became road kill. Though I didn't see his bear with him..."
"Oh," England replied. His shoulder was starting to bother him quite a bit now. The pain, which was likely dulled by some sort of painkiller, was beginning to become more persistent. "Is he here as well?"
"Canada? Yeah, he should be outside your room if he didn't leave. He came with me."
England nodded, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He winced as he jolted his wrist and banged he shoulder off of the back of the bed, which certainly did nothing to help the pain.
"Artie, you okay?" America seemed to have picked up on England's increased number of scowls, many of which were directed at his shoulder, "Is it your shoulder? Do ya nee-"
"Arthur," England enunciated each syllable, "And, No. I'm-" He grimaced, "-I'm fine" He stated firmly, glaring at America.
"Y'know, I'm sure that the nurse could give you some painkillers or something..." America continued, completely disregarding England's protests, as he looked around the room, searching for something.
"Alfred! I already said that I'm fine!" England clenched his fists, "There is no need for-"
"Hey, Iggy. Your heart monitor is doing that really fast beeping thingy again. " America eyed the heart monitor sternly, "You got shot in the shoulder, right? Right. So why do you wanna be in pain the entire time?" America asked, not expecting an answer. Nor did he receive one, only grumbling from England, "Not everyone is going to hurt you..." America said in an undertone. America finally found what he was looking for, the nurse call button. He pressed the button a few times, repeatedly, and waited.
Soon, a nurse came bustling in, "What would you like?" She asked sweetly, most likely directing the question at Arthur, who glared, however his eyes were almost pleading.
Instead she received an answer from America, "He need's some painkillers, his shoulder's bothering him." He threw a thumb over his shoulder at England.
"I'm FINE!" England cried, his exclamation likely heard in the other rooms near him. In truth, his shoulder was really bothering him now. But England refused to side with America.
The nursed looked at the heart monitor as well, concerned, which was increasing in speed once more. Alfred motioned for her to lean in closer, so he could talk to her without Arthur hearing.
"Ignore him. He doesn't like to accept help from others. He's stubborn like that." He whispered, England only managing to catch the words 'ignore' and 'stubborn'. Then even more quietly he continued, "Besides, I'm his emergency contact."
The nurse nodded at Alfred, silently leaving the room. England bent over and groaned as he put his elbows on his knees and face palmed, running his hands partway through his hair. It felt so dirty. God, he needed a shower. He had the impending feeling that he had lost this battle against America. Soon enough, England's suspicions were confirmed when the nurse came back in with a syringe filled with medicine. Before he could begin to protest, she injected it into the IV bag, said 'Sorry, hun' and left the room.
"Git," England growled into his hands, "I am not stubborn."
America chuckled, a wide, goofy grin spreading across his face.
England could already feel the side affects of the medication. Though his shoulder did feel better already, the pain hardly noticeable, he was starting to feel drowsy, his eyelids growing heavy. They started to flutter close, and he fought what seemed like a losing battle to keep them open. His head was still resting in his hands, and he was thinking about how good it might be just to close his eyes and drift off-
"Iggy? Earth to Englaaand..." America had noticed that England had started to sway back and forth on his elbows, his eyes barely open. America poked him gently, "Iggy?"
"Hmm?" England turned sleepily towards America, eyes opening a bit more, blinking slowly. America's eyes seemed so pretty today, bright blue orbs of colour...
"Y'okay?" America questioned for the second time that day, cocking his head to the side as he met England's eyes with his own, "Ya' tired?
"No...I'm fine..." England yawned, his head drooping as he briefly closed his eyes and then snapped them open again. A small smile made its way onto his face, but it was quickly replaced by a frown as he yawned again.
"You don't have to stay awake because I'm here." America said, "I won't do anything," He briefly thought of France, but quickly brushed away the thought.
England didn't respond other than a faint 'mhmm'.
"C'mere," America said when England didn't show any sign of moving. He got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the bed, gently grabbing England around the waist and pulled him down onto him so his head was resting in his lap. He brushed away the hair from England's face.
"How 'bout you get some rest?" He whispered quietly as he watched England fight to keep his fluttering eyes open. Soon, he gave into his tiredness and closed his eyes, falling asleep soon afterwards.
America thought he heard England mutter something along the lines of 'Bloody git', but it could have just been a figment of his imagination. He didn't linger long before moving England's head to the pillow, slipping out from underneath him. He hoped that he left England in a comfortable position. Wobbling a bit when he first got up, he stole one last glance at England's sleeping form before he hobbled out of the room, unsure of how long he had been inside.
Canada was waiting outside for him, "How is he?" He asked. He had noticed that a nurse had gone in there with a syringe, but he decided not to comment on it.
"He's okay." America replied, looking back at the door he had closed behind him with a thoughtful expression on his face, "He fell asleep, just before I left." Canada nodded.
America's stomach grumbled. He hadn't eaten anything since the day before, and the last thing that he had consumed was a half a cup of coffee. In short, he was starving. He began to walk down the hall to the elevator, his gait lopsided.
"America?" Canada questioned, starting to walk to America, "Where are you going?"
"I'm starved." America replied, his stomach agreeing with him, "I think I saw a McDonald's on the way here."
And with that, America's thoughts were shifted to focus on how many 'Big Mac's' he was going to buy when he got there.