Fiona (blood_winged) wrote in usxuk,

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At The End Of All Things [11/?]

Title: At The End Of All Things
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance/Humour(in places)
Pairing/s: (in this chapter) USxUK
Characters: (in this chapter) UK, US, Poland, France, Iceland, Switzerland, Canada.
Rating/Warnings: Overall NC-17. This chapter PG-13. Fluff~
Summary: The year is 2438. A little over one hundred years ago, Russia finally cracked and nuclear warheads were sent flying to every corner of the world. No one had time to react. Some countries were wounded, some lost forever. The smaller nations suffered the most. Russia disappeared, never to be heard of again. Finally, the world is beginning to piece itself back together, and there is movement in the irradiated lands of Old Russia. Something is stirring, and only the rag-tag group of remaining nations can discover what it is. Ivan Braginski, or something far worse...

~ There is nothing good in war, except its ending. ~

‘Sometimes we’d forget about the humans. It was an easy enough mistake to make, living in our own small world as we did, but we would always be reminded, usually by strange things, or by dreams. When you live in at world where every day seems quite hopeless, dreams can be incredibly cruel things, but Alfred and I always helped each other. We used to laugh about how long we’d spent fighting, and how silly it had all been, and how we’d never thought that we’d end up like this.

One thing we never doubted was that we were glad we had each other.

It’s the things that you take for granted when you have everything, that you really come to appreciate when you suddenly have nothing. I daresay that I love Alfred more now than I ever did, because, while he was always the most important thing in my life, it took the removal of everything else superfluous to make me fully realise it. I love Alfred with all my heart and more, and that isn’t all.

I need him.’


“We can’t just give them our weapons,” Vash said immediately, clasping one hand protectively over his own firearm. He was right, of course, and they all knew it – how did these humans expect them to survive out there without any kind of protection? They were obviously not in the best of health and Alfred... well, the less said about Alfred, the better. “There has to be something else.”

Feliks relayed their sentiments, and at first it seemed that any chance they’d had at getting help from these people had been lost. Then, the woman who had brought them in spoke up, and the older of the two men immediately shook his head, only to nod (though with a suspicious look cast to the group of nations) as the woman stepped up to the desk and spoke quietly, a frown on her face. She appeared oddly satisfied as she joined them and conversed with Feliks for a moment, who looked first concerned, then surprised at what she told him. The others could do nothing but wait until they had stopped talking, and Feliks turned to them, scuffing one hand through his blonde hair.

“She said that it’d be a good thing if one of us is proficient with weapons repair, because that’s the other option.” As soon as the words left his mouth all eyes turned to Vash, who pretended not to notice until Matthew prodded him lightly, and he finally looked up, clearing his throat.

“I can take a look,” the small Swiss man said quietly, grunting under his breath as Francis clapped a hand down on his shoulder. He shrugged the hand off, and muttered something in Romansh under his breath, forcing a smile as he was pulled forwards by Feliks. He was led by the younger man through to another room, and though the others couldn’t see what he could, they certainly heard his loud expletives and the tone of excitement in his voice as he saw whatever was in there.

“Vash sounds happy,” Matthew murmured.

“I’m not sure whether or not to be worried about that,” Arthur responded dryly.

The sun was going down when they were shown to a place that they could sleep for the night, after the last kinks of their agreement had been worked out via translating from Feliks and diplomacy from the woman whose name, Feliks told them, was Laima. Francis, Matthew and Óskar had decided to join Feliks in mingling with some of the humans, after finding to their pleasure that a small handful spoke passable English. Not, Arthur mused, that the language barrier had ever stopped Francis before. He found himself more amused by that thought than he should have been as he pushed Alfred down onto the thin mattress on the floor, realising too late that he had pushed down on the man’s injured shoulder. Alfred hadn’t made any sound of complaint, though he had paled slightly and looked more than a little relieved when Arthur’s hand was swiftly jerked away.

“Bloody hell, Alfred, I’m sorry,” the Englishman said, falling silent as Alfred took his hand and kissed his fingers.

“It’s alright, Arthur. It’s not that bad,” he murmured, but Arthur was already pushing his jacket off and muttering disapprovingly at the blood on his shirt as he unbuttoned it and slipped it over his shoulders. He pulled the medical box towards him and opened it, deftly removing the bandages already wrapped around the American’s wound and pausing in something that looked like shock.

“What? Is it bad?” Alfred asked, craning a little to try and see.

“Don’t look,” Arthur told him, one hand rising quickly to lightly tap Alfred’s cheek, turning his head away.

“Hey!” was the instant protest. “It’s my shoulder, I want to-”


Alfred stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes wide and lips slightly parted, then he sighed and looked away. Frowning, Arthur returned his attention to the wound, and chewed his lip fretfully as he examined it. He was sure that it had gotten worse, and that black-blue bruising around the edges hadn’t been there before. Carefully, he brushed his thumbs down the sides of the cut and narrowed his eyes, ignoring the hisses of complaint from the American. With a slow exhale he drew the medical box closer and rummaged inside it, pulling out a slim needle and some suture thread. Alfred spotted this out of the corner of his eye and jumped, scooting well over a foot away. In the middle of threading the needle, Arthur sighed patiently and grabbed Alfred’s arm, pulling him back.

“You’re not sticking a needle in me, Arthur. You know I hate needles!” Alfred said, pouting lightly until Arthur kissed him.

“You’re supposed to be a hero, Alfred,” the Englishman reminded him. “You’re not scared of a little needle, are you?”

“Didn’t say I was scared...” He kept his head turned away as Arthur began stitching, gritting his teeth each time the needle went through his skin. They both knew that it would only be temporary, that this kind of wound couldn’t just be fixed with a bit of surgical thread, but it would hopefully stop the bleeding and give Alfred a bit of reprieve from the discomfort. He twitched, and Arthur made an irritated sound, pausing.

“Come on, Al. Just think of something else. You’ve been through worse pain than this, remember?” The careful stitching started up again, but now Alfred’s mind was somewhere else.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, and Arthur made a noise of acknowledgement, leaning close to the wound as his fingers worked. “I remember when the bombs finally stopped, and I picked you up and carried you to my- Ow, watch it, Arthur!”

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered.

“... I took you to my car, and we drove for hours and hours, and everything looked so... awful. I thought you were going to die, you were bleeding so much. I thought I was going to die. Then the car broke down... and I carried you on my back for three hours, until Matthew found us. Damn, I’ve never been so glad to see him.”


“Eh?” Alfred finally looked down at his shoulder, his gaze running up the neat stitching before Arthur pressed a gauze pad over it and bandaged it up again. He smiled, wrapping his good arm around the Englishman and pulling him in for a warm kiss. “You’re so good to me, Artie,” he cooed. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re delirious,” Arthur told him fondly, pushing him gently back onto the mattress. “Get some rest.”

“Only if you stay with me, Artie,” the American said. The smaller male smiled softly and gave a small nod, settling down beside his husband and resting his head on the man’s uninjured shoulder. A warm arm was wrapped around him and he wrapped his own around Alfred’s chest, shutting his eyes and sighing quietly.

“Hey, Alfred?”


“Do you think we’ll be okay?”

Alfred was quiet for a short time after that, and Arthur opened his eyes, lifting his head a little to find the American gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. Sensing eyes on him, Alfred glanced down, and smiled, lightly ruffling Arthur’s hair.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. You’ve got me to look after you.”

“Um, Alfred? Arthur?” Arthur rolled over and sat up, looking to the door where Matthew was stood with Óskar behind him. The Englishman frowned, hearing Alfred sit up gingerly, and nodded a little to the younger man. “I found something,” Matthew went on. “I think you ought to see it.”

The Canadian led them outside and across to a tumbledown shed, lit only by the dim light coming from an old paraffin lamp. Spiked shadows were cast across the room, but one thing stood out clearly, and that was the large, rusted truck standing in the middle of the room. Arthur stared at it, but Alfred squeaked like a child in a sweet shop and grabbed hold of Arthur’s hand.

“Look, it’s a truck!” he said.

“I see that, Alfred,” Arthur replied, glancing over to Matthew who had one hand over his mouth, repressing his grin at his brother’s enthusiasm. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or not, but he could swear that Óskar was smiling too.

“Arthur, Arthur, look at it! It has wheels!”

“I see that, too.”

“Arthur! Does it work?”

“You’re not driving.”


Kweh. I'm still not entirely well x.x I shall be getting antibiotics tomorrow I hope... and I keep piling stuff on by giving myself more fics to write! Why do I do iiiiiiiiit...


<| Chapter Ten
| Chapter Twelve |>

Tags: fanfiction
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