Archive of Our Own

It’s a beautiful morning! America thinks as he gets out of bed, stretching and yawning. He pads into the bathroom to get washed up. It’s only just after eight thirty, so he doesn’t feel any need to rush. He doesn’t have anywhere to be for another hour.

He finishes up in the bathroom a few minutes later and heads back into his bedroom to decide what to wear today. Rummaging through his closet produces a comfortable suit (he doesn’t need to be too formal today), and he dresses. A glance at the clock tells him it’s eight forty-four.

The number switches to 8:45 as America turns away, getting distracted as he passes his bedroom window, looking out at the beautiful early autumn sky. It’s very blue today, deep and even, a perfect back drop for the city shining below it under the morning sun.

Then the pain hits.

America cries out, clutching his left temple as sharp, burning pain fills his mind. There’s a wrenching and a twisting to it, and he can feel the blood welling under his hand, running down his face and neck, soaking into his shirt and jacket.

What’s going on? There is no war, he’s not fighting anyone right now, and this is not a wound of losing his soldiers somewhere overseas. This is a deep wound that leaves him gasping, clutching at the windowsill for long minutes to try and stay upright when his knees are shaking so violently. This is a wound on his own land, against his people, going about their lives in peace. Could it possibly be an accident?

America forces himself fully upright against the window, and it is only then that the smoke catches his eye.

Thick, black smoke, roiling out in ugly billowing clouds against a sky that remains spotlessly blue.

America only has a brief moment to note the sheer incongruence of it, before he’s sent reeling again, another wound opening just under the first, sending fresh blood spilling down in a red cascade. He just barely catches himself on the bed. The clock in his peripheral vision reads 9:03.

What’s going on? That he is under attack is now obvious, he tries to think past the burning in his head, forcing deep, gasping breaths of air into his lungs. One might be an accident. Not two. Two.

Two. Twin. Twin Towers…and he can see them now, even from the bed, his lovely skyscrapers enveloped in fire and smoke, and it takes him a long time, too long, to realize that his eyes are blurry because he’s crying.

Stand.

He forces himself up, staggering to the window again, forcing away the pain long enough to get it open. It’s hard - his hands are slick with blood.

He can hear the sirens, so many sirens, even from up this high.

America stands there, clutching at his head and the windowsill, staring. He can’t tear his eyes away from the Towers, can’t pull himself away, though he knows that he should do something to stop the bleeding. The wounds haven’t stopped bleeding. But all he can do is stare and stare and stare. What’s going on?

It’s not until pain slams him again, this time on his chest, right over his heart, that America is torn from the window, crying out in agony as his knees give way fully. He crawls to the bedside table, groping with a still-slippery hand for the radio button.

The numbers on the clock inches from his face read 9:45 in stark red numbers, blood red numbers, as the radio picks up…

“…and we’ve just received word that a third plane has slammed into the eastern wall of the Pentagon in Washington….”

America kneels there, clutching his head and his heart as the radio announcer’s words go on, but he’s not hearing them.

Who could- Who could possibly be doing this? Who would do this? Why?

But he can’t think, can’t think for all the blood, for the burning in these wounds that refuses to stop, refuses to ease, for the voices of his people, crying out and filling his mind….

What is going on?

It’s then (the clock reads 10:05 as he lifts his head) that the rumbling fills the air. It’s deep and rolling, like thunder, but it can’t be thunder the sky is still blue…

Pain flaring sharply anew on his left temple, America forces himself to his feet, staggering back to the window as desperation and horror fill his mind. No, no it can’t be-

But it is, and the South Tower is falling as he watches, crumbling, and he wants to look away, can’t look away even as the pain makes his vision blur.

“No,” is all he can whisper, “no!” He’s reaching out the window, as if he could grab concrete and glass and steel and somehow keep them up, keep back the boiling cloud of dust that takes their place. But he can’t and it’s still falling, still crumbling, still disappearing… “Nooooooo!”

The rumbling dies away, and the South Tower is gone. Fresh blood spills from the wound.

After that, he can only pull in half-choked, sobbing gasps, the air tasting like blood and dirt as it passes over his tongue, and he chokes on it, coughing. He hasn’t got more than a few minutes to try and breathe, though, before there comes a long, scraping burn over his breastbone. He knows that happened at 10:10, for the pain of that doubled him over, his eyes sliding past the clock again. He can’t even see the blood from that one, there’s so much already on his shirt.

He stays bent over like that, slumping to his knees just under the window. What next? What new wound will open now? Where? He breathes, and tries to think.

When the rumbling begins again (10:28 say the bloody numbers), America forces himself up. He knows what it is even before the pain in his temple spikes again. He forces himself up anyway, even as his other shining tower comes falling, falling down. He doesn’t have enough left in him to scream, only to cry, to weep, to sob, as his people are doing.

Their voices, raised in pain, in fear, in anguished disbelief, are the only thing America hears as he falls back from the window.

What next? What part of him will bleed next, how many more of his people will he lose today?

He wants to pass out. He wants so badly to let the blackness threatening at the edges of his vision take him, but he can’t. Not when there might be more.

He curls up against the side of the bed, his eyes (blue, blue as the sky outside) wide, pressing at his wounds with open, bloody palms, and waits.

----

Canada hurries up to America’s apartment. He’s not quite sure what’s going on, only that something terrible has happened. Plane crashes, he’d heard, more than one, and he’s seen the smoke, but he’s worried about America so he hasn’t stopped to find out more. That he felt a brief twinge of pain himself, some time ago now, doesn’t do anything to decrease his worry.

At first, he knocks politely and calls for America to let him know who it is, in case the other nation is busy or scared (if the self-proclaimed ‘hero’ would even admit to such an emotion).

Five minutes of silence later, it is Canada himself who is scared, and he has progressed to banging on the door with his fist and shouting. “God damn it, America, please let me in-!”

The door jerks open abruptly, and Canada cuts off with a horrified choke as America staggers a little in front of him and falls against the door frame. The other nation is drenched in blood, his blue eyes wide and unfocused behind bloody, tear-stained glasses.

“America!” Canada lurches forward to catch him just as America starts to fall. “What happened?”

America, slumping bonelessly against him, just shakes his head, one jerk right, one jerk left, to show that he doesn’t know.

“I’ve got to get you to the hospital!” Canada maneuvers the other nation around until he can pick America up, and heads out of the building again. America goes limp in his arms as Canada reaches the street, having finally passed out. The northern nation swears and walks faster, trying to remember where the closest hospital is to America’s place.

It doesn’t help that the streets are packed with people, talking, screaming, crying, and there is fine dust in the air. In his arms, America coughs, and his breath sounds choked and wheezing, more so than the bit of dust here should have made it. Looking back, Canada sees huge clouds of dust and smoke still billowing up from behind distant buildings.

Setting his jaw, he looks forward again and hurries on.

----

“What the bloody hell happened?” England bursts into the hospital room an hour or so later.

“Quiet, please!” Canada frowns, indicating America’s unconscious form on the hospital bed, wrapped in white bandages that were already beginning to stain red.

“What the bloody hell happened?” England repeats, more quietly but with no less intensity, coming into the room and closing the door.

Canada shakes his head, and looks back at America. “I don’t really know. The Twin Towers are gone, and there’s been some kind of explosion in Washington DC, at the Pentagon, I think. Someone said something about planes hitting the towers…” Canada is silent for a moment, then goes on, “He was already like this when I found him. He didn’t seem to know what had happened either. Not that he was in any shape to be talking.”

“Fuck,” England says eloquently, and pulls up a second chair to sit beside Canada. The shock he has been covering with his usual belligerence now shows in his green eyes. Canada hasn’t bothered to try and hide his own.

They sit in silence, watching the harsh breathing of the nation that is so close to both of them, wincing through the violent coughs that do not penetrate the blue-eyed nation’s unconsciousness. Horror and rage gather in England’s eyes behind the shock as he surveys the damage done to his rebellious once-colony.

Canada himself is still trying not to remember how much blood there was, before it got cleaned away, how dirty and burned the wounds looked. He grips the arms of the chair tighter.

It is awhile before America stirs and opens his eyes, not hidden now by his glasses, which have been cleaned and set neatly on the table next to the bed.

“America,” England lurches out of his chair, even before Canada, and goes to the edge of the bed. “Are-” He stops, cutting off the question. He seems to struggle for words for a moment, and at last repeats, “America,” softly.

“England,” America whispers in return, voice hoarse from the violent cough that has not entirely left him. He turns his head fractionally. “Canada.” Then, he turns his gaze up to the ceiling, his eyes going unfocused again.

“Fuck,” England repeats, and perches himself carefully on the side of the bed, down by America’s legs, and just as carefully takes his right hand. Canada sees America squeeze England’s hand slightly, his callused fingers still strong despite his current injuries. It is something, at least.

That England has not yet called America an idiot, not even once, tells Canada just how worried the older nation is.

France is the next to arrive, sweeping in with his usual grace, but all flirting or mockery for once gone from his face. He and England even manage to be civil for a few moments, before England leaves the room, explaining that he wants to find out more.

“Mon Dieu!” France exclaims softly, upon getting a closer look at America’s injuries as he takes England’s place at the bed. “Mon cher, this is a monstrous thing they have done to you.” He is gentle as he, too, takes America’s hand. “You have my support as well, oui.”

America nods, fractionally still, trying not to move his head too much. “Thanks,” he croaks, and does not resist the hand holding his.

France stays long enough to hear England’s report when he returns.

“Hijacked planes,” the green-eyed nation explains, anger shining strongly on his face, though his voice is tightly controlled. “Four of them. One each for the World Trade Center towers, one for the Pentagon, and one has crashed in southern Pennsylvania. No one seems to be quite sure what happened there.”

Something (fear? rage? grief?) flashes across America’s face, too quick for Canada to catch, and then the blue eyes are unfocused again, fixed firmly on the blank white of the ceiling.

France swears softly in his own tongue, scowling, and nods to them all before leaving the room, saying he will be back later. England resumes his place on the edge of the bed. He and Canada do not speak, and neither does America. If it were not for the fact that his eyes were open, flicking unfocused back and forth across the ceiling, Canada would have wondered if he were even conscious.

Japan comes a little while later, his light footsteps even but quick in the hallway. He pauses in the doorway and dips a quick bow of greeting to them before coming in. “England-san, Canada-san.”

“Japan,” England greets him quietly, nodding that he should come closer. The smaller nation does so, going around to the other side of the bed to cover America’s free hand gently.

This gets America’s attention. He blinks and looks away from the ceiling, meeting an outwardly calm face and dark eyes that don’t completely hide Japan’s shock and horror.

“Japan,” America says, voice still hoarse.

“Yes, America-san,” Japan replies. His eyes move to flick over the bandages, narrowing at what they see. “This is unforgivable.”

That unidentifiable swirl of emotions passes over America’s face again, and he dips his chin a little in agreement.

“We’ll help him find the bastards,” England growls, and Canada finds himself nodding.

Japan stays for awhile, just standing there with his hand resting over America’s, and Canada takes the chance to go out and walk around, to see if anything else is known. Not much, not yet, and he goes back feeling helpless and angry, wishing there were something he could do other than watch America’s pain.

Japan leaves then, apologizing that he must go, but promises to keep in touch often. The phone calls start not too long after that, from those who are not quite so close to America, but are worried and want to know what has happened.

“We tried calling his house,” Germany explains to England, having taken the phone from a very frightened and upset Italy, “but there was no answer. So we tried your cell phone.”

“We’re at the hospital with him,” England replies, “tell the others to call me or Canada.” He explains what has happened, as best they know, and Germany says to pass his and Italy’s support on to America.

Sweden and Finland call next, followed by a very upset Lithuania and nervous, angry Poland. China calls a little while after that, to give sympathy to the families of the dead. Even Russia calls, sounding quiet as he too offers sympathy. Others follow: Israel, Mexico, Colombia, and Egypt.

Canada and England take turns answering, explaining what is known and accepting the condolences and offers of support on America’s behalf.

“He’s doing better,” they say, “but resting now.”

America pulls himself into focus long enough to hear who has called whenever either of them hang up, nods acceptance of the sympathy, and then lapses back into the pain and grief that take up so much of his mind.

That doesn’t change as the day passes slowly into night, and it is only then that Canada realizes how exhausted he is when a huge yawn takes him completely by surprise. He is still feeling bruised himself; they had learned as the day went on that it was not only Americans who died in the World Trade Center.

“Go sleep,” England commands softly. America’s eyes have at last closed, the wounded nation slipping mercifully back into unconsciousness.

“But-”

“Go.”

Canada starts to protest again, then sighs and nods his assent. England has at least pulled a chair over to sit on instead of the edge of the bed, and despite his obvious fatigue, there is an air of stubbornness about him that Canada does not have enough energy to fight.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says instead, and leaves to find his own bed.

It still takes him some time to fall asleep. There may not have been any more attacks, but what already happened was more than enough. Exhaustion takes longer than he would have liked to conquer the question in his mind.

What will happen now?

----

The next week passes in a blur of blood, tears, and (somehow) hope, as America’s people pull together in the face of the atrocity. Their strength is their nation’s strength, and America regains his focus and energy rapidly over the following days, even with the wounds still raw under his bandages.

Canada is heartened by the change, and he and England feel able to worry a little less as the days pass and America begins to take on his duties again, even though he remains (partially under orders) in the hospital. He swears justice on whoever attacked him, smiles to hear the voices of his people, and gets back to all those who called or visited that first day.

But he doesn’t cry.

England shrugs when Canada mentions it to him. “He’ll deal with it in his own way. He always does.”

Canada nods, and tries to put his worry aside because England is right about that.

----

A week to the day after the 11th of September, Canada comes into America’s hospital room to find it (for once) empty of all but America himself, who is out of bed and standing at the window.

It’s a beautiful day, the sky a bright, clear blue.

“Canada,” America asks without turning around, “where are the planes?”

“Eh?” Canada asks, startled.

“The planes,” America repeats, “I haven’t seen any all week. Where are they?”

“Oh,” Canada says, coming to stand at the end of the bed. “I thought you knew. They’ve all been grounded.”

America is very still for a moment before turning to him, his eyes a little wide behind his glasses. “What?”

“They’ve been grounded,” Canada repeats quietly, frowning a little. “Since a little while after…after the attacks.”

“All of them?”

There’s something off about America’s voice, so Canada doesn’t speak, just nods slowly.

And somehow this, this of everything else, is what finally releases America’s tears. He falls slowly to his knees beside the window, face buried in his hands as he weeps, then cries aloud, then sobs.

And of course it would be this, Canada thinks, lurching forward to grasp the other nation’s shoulders. Of course it would, for America who has not been without a plane in his skies since his people learned to fly, for America the pilot, who has just been so horribly injured with his own planes…of course it would be this.

So Canada kneels there with him as America cries for his planes, for his skyscrapers, for his people. Canada kneels, and doesn’t know what to do.

America weeps.