Stranded [England] [Complete]

[England]

''Perhaps we should.'' That was strange. America often lazed about when he had obligations to fulfill and liked saying that he was in no rush to do anything, but it was surprising of America to ask them to just go back to sleep when they had a brand new day ahead of them. Especially if this brand new day would make or break their escape yet again.

''Alright, close your eyes, get some sleep. I'll scout around,'' England suggested, and pushed himself away from America's embrace with a little bit of trouble to get up. His clothes were still damp, some parts actually still waterlogged, so in an effort to be a bit more comfortable, he pulled his tunic off of himself, tossing it at America, and only kept his white, now transparent with water wife-beater. The spring breeze was a bit chilly, so he rubbed his arms as he walked around.

Pointedly ignoring the sides of the building that would get him spotted by the enthusiastic crowd at their door, England peered over the side of the building on one side, and then went over to the other side, which was closer to the door. As he carefully stepped closer, he stilled his breath, and peered over the edge as slowly as possible, as not to break out in sweat. The smell of the living had been washed off of him by the rain, but it would be back, and England hoped they'd be out before it did.

Once his suvey of the surroundings was over, he warily moved away from the door, careful to watch his footing, and then jogged back to America when he got out of earshot.

''We're still surrounded but it's better than yesterday. A row or so has already left. I think that the side we're targetting will be clear in a couple of days at best, so we can climb down and make a run for it. Until then, we should try and preserve our energy so that we can be ready to bolt when the time comes.'' His eyes went to America's pained expression, then to his leg. He'd probably gotten a cold from the rain, which wouldn't do them much good, but he hoped that he'd be well enough to run when the opportunity showed itself. He knelt down in front of him and patted his leg, then began untying the very tight bandage around his cut. The blood should have coagulated and dried until now, so it would have been no problem to open it up.

''Are you sleeping yet?'' he inquired as he worked on undoing the bandage as gently as he could. Coagulated or not, the skin would still be very irritated and sensitive. Last thing England wanted to do was re-open the wound.

[America]

America mumbled out an inaudible response when England pulled away from his embrace, then closed his arms in on himself, trying to block out the chilly wind. Well, at least he would be able to get a little bit extra sleep. A few minutes, he told himself. A few minutes would be fine, and he'd sleep off whatever early-morning ailments had struck him, then he could prepare for a way out.

But as he tried letting a peaceful slumber overtake him, he realized he was far too uncomfortable to actually fall back asleep. He tried moving around slightly, but no matter what position he laid in, his body still ached and his head still felt heavy. He felt hot, but goosebumps spread across his arms whenever there was so much as a light breeze. He just wanted blankets and perhaps more water. A pillow would have been nice, along with shelter from the wind. Oh, and he would need new clothes; his were damp.

While he was dreaming, he wanted to leave Canada and go somewhere warmer.

He sighed when England came back and began to talk, the words only making a partial amount of sense to his muddled mind. Of course, he did open his eyes when he felt the bandage around his wound loosen up. "No, not yet," he muttered, feeling dizzy as he stared over at England. "Mm, but I'm still tryin' to think of an escape plan, don't worry." He tried a smile on, but it instantly vanished when he felt a slight pain in his leg. All the movement was irritating his wound, he supposed. "Mi-Might take me 'til tonight, but I got it."

He had no idea how they were going to escape, and thinking on the subject made his head hurt too much. Nothing was processing correctly, and the ideas he could conjure up sounded ridiculous and unrealistic, even to him.

[England]

"Right," England nodded absently, undoing the dirty strip of cloth completely and throwing it a bit further away. The blood staining it had dried, so he was not worried. "Keep thinking about it. I think your leg has gotten better, in the meantime." England had never been a superstitious person, except when it came to fairies, but he certainly didn't believe in jinxing.

But he'd jinxed it.

As soon as he delicately pulled on the bloody cloth of America's pants to bring the wound into view, a fresh spurt of blood left the cut and rolled down to coat England's fingers.

"What?" he took a sharp breath, eyes widening. "It's... It's bleeding still." He turned to America, incredulous. "A tiny wound like this should have gotten better overnight with your regeneration abilities, so why is it still bleeding?"

The question was puzzling, and it wasn't just a matter of figuring out why it hadn't healed, but also a matter of getting it to stop before the smell permeated the atmosphere. Blood smelled acidic, reminiscent of sea water, and it was powerful. The zombies were still hanging around, looking for something, and a single whiff of the tangy scent would give them a reason to believe that there was something to look for.

Why wasn't America healing?

"The wound's not deep enough to require several days of regeneration... You're also healthy enough to provide enough energy for regeneration..." Trailing off, he glanced at America's sweaty face. "Or not. Perhaps you need to eat more."

Putting his clean hand on his forehead, England felt the heat immediately and pulled back, grimacing.

"Ugh. Sick." And then it hit him like a freigh train. "Infected." He sat back by his legs and questioningly looked at him. "Do you think... You got the wound infected?"

[America]

"I didn't get anything infected," America snapped, sounding incredulous. He swallowed nervously, glancing down at the wound. Somehow, someway, it hadn't yet healed. England's answer to the question (unspoken question, really) had to be the only possible one; it was infected. Whatever he had gotten his thigh cut on somehow made his wound infected.

However, he didn't exactly want to believe such a thing. Infections weren't easy to heal without proper medicine. Spending a few days on the roof were bad enough as it was, and having an infected wound and all the symptoms that came with it, including a fever, was even worse. He gritted his teeth, willing the wound to just close up, willing the fever to just go away. God, not here, and not now. He wasn't prepared for this. He wasn't prepared for anything.

He just wanted to sleep until the zombies dispersed.

With a deep breath, he shook his head, wincing at the sudden headache. "Shit," he muttered, rubbing at his forehead, then glanced over at England. "It isn't infected," he said. He didn't know if he just wanted to convince himself, or if he wanted to live in a dream world where everything turned out fine. "Look, I'm not even sick. Just tired." He was pretty sure exhaustion could cause some sort of illness. "And, um, I guess you rubbed the cut the wrong way when you were taking the bandages off, so-"

He stopped here to cough- once, twice, three-four-five times. Once he was sure he was finished, he thickly cleared his throat. "-so there," he finished hoarsely, feeling rather embarrassed. That completely backfired on him.

[England]

England looked at him, raising and eyebrow and not looking convinced at all. How like America to deny being anything less than a hero.

"Try harder next time, and I might believe it," he rolled his eyes and pulled out his knife from his waist to cut a little more from the cloth in order to get a better look at the wound. He could clearly see the puncture, about half an inch wide, but probably about an inch deep or so. Still, it should have closed by now.

Grabbing the tunic he'd thrown off of himself, he picked one of the thicker parts and began wringing it so that the water still stuck inside the threads of his clothes would drip onto America's bloodied skin.

The water was enough to clear up some of the blood on the wound, but not enough to give England a clear view of the cut. Pulling his wife beater off, too, and shivering at the breeze tickling his damp, naked chest, he repeated the motion to squeeze out every drop of water, then used the greyish cloth to wipe the surface of the wound and clean off all of the dried blood and dirt. The wound left oozed clean blood, but England was not convinced.

"You said you probably cut yourself on a rusty nail. That explains the infection, but there's no external sign of infection. It looks like something directly cut your arterioles and stayed there long enough to infect your blood stream directly. It'd take at least a few minutes for the bacteria from rust to worm their way into your blood, and you didn't stand around for that to happen. It rained, too, so outside factors could not have infected you, so it's definitely rust." He bit his lip as he watched the blood flow off his thigh. "I don't know what's going on. Maybe there's... something stuck in it?"

[America]

America kept still when England cleaned off his wound, only looking up once, and that was when England took off his tank top, so he figured he had every reason to. He was much more interested in healing his wound, though, and coming up with a speedy escape, so he did keep his eyes more on that.

Lips tight, he stared at it for a few seconds, then shook his head, as painful as it was. "I dunno. I...I really don't remember. It was dark and we were running." He had given up all pretense of pretending everything was fine. It was blatantly obvious that it wasn't, and saying otherwise would just be ridiculous. In such a situation, America couldn't afford to be ridiculous. "I mean, I guess it could've been a nail. Seems right." He had to clear his throat again, ready to just flop down and steal the rest of the water they had.

He did have some self-control, though.

"Maybe some, like, rust got into it? I...I think that's all that would be able to get in. And, I mean, makes sense. It's the only thing that I can imagine on the nail, really." He sighed, but finally smiled up at England. Dwelling on such misfortunes wasn't exactly his thing. Everything would turn out fine in the end, especially if he stopped feeling so down and icky and actually started focusing more.

And, to focus more, it would probably be best to get better.

"Don't suppose there's any chance we can, uh, get whatever's making it infected out, is there?"

[England]

"Makes sense..." England mused out loud, and shuddered violently when the breeze blew around again, forcing his wife beater back on himself though it did not do much to protect him and dispel the goosebumps lining his arms. He looked slightly deranged, too, with the damp cloth sticking to his skin and the patch of fresh blood stained against his stomach.

"Perhaps you have a piece of the nail stuck in it." He bit his lip and looked at the injury. The hole was rather tiny, and it was hard to see with the blood coming out. "It's gone pretty deep, if it is a nail, and to get it out, I'd probably have to cut a larger opening in your leg." He glanced up at America worriedly. "It'll hurt, nothing you can't take, I'm sure, but it'll still hurt, and it'll make you bleed even more. If I do this, the undead will definitely be onto us, but at least you'll be able to heal and be in acceptable shape to climb and run when the time comes."

The question of hygiene was prevalent, too. All their knives had come into contact with zombie blood at some point, and England was definitely not willing to risk even the slightest speck of zombie blood coming in contact with America's blood. He didn't see how else he could re-open the wound larger to pull out whatever had infected his bloodstream, though. He would never consider shooting America's leg for such a thing, but he did not know what alternatives he could find. Perhaps he could find a piece of broken gravel on the ground. That would also have questionable hygiene, though, and could potentially make for even worse infection.

They needed something sharp, and preferably metallic. Something like... a can.

"Or... I could use my knife to open a can..." he mused out loud. "The food inside would be inedible, but I could try and rip out the top with my hands, and use one of the other sides to perform what sounds like is going to be one of the most gruesome things I've done since the World Wars," he suggested, but there was anxiety in his eyes. "What do you think? Your leg's the one being cut open, after all. Do you really want to do this? I won't lie, it'll hurt like a bitch, but at least you'll heal afterwards. Still, if you don't want to, I completely understand..."

[America]

Eyes widening, America thought it all over and winced. He hated that idea. He hated the idea of the top, sharp part of a can cutting into his skin. A knife would be bad enough, especially without any medication to keep the pain at bay or to put him to sleep. But a torn-off part of a can? America's heart hammered just imagining that.

Of course, England was right. It would heal quickly, what with his own regeneration rate, and then he'd be able to make a speedy get-away, as compared to running from zombies with a fever. Besides, this would only be a few minutes of pain. A fever would bring discomfort until they were able to arrive back at the warehouse. America wasn't willing to stay on the roof for the rest of the days with a fever.

God, but he hated pain. He could handle it, but he hated it.

Glancing up into England's worried eyes with a worried expression of his own, he slowly nodded, bringing a hand up to feel his burning forehead. "If...if you think it'll, um, help, yeah, we can do that." He was nervous, and he could feel the sweat gathering on his temples, despite the fact that he was freezing cold. "I mean, I'm sure I can deal with the pain for a little bit,'cause I've had worse than this, and I really wanna, um, be ready to run when we have to and not slow you down any."

Even though he felt like sleeping and crying (both at the same time), he grinned, choosing not to look down at his leg. "'Sides, I trust you! If you think this will make me feel better, let's try it and see."

[England]

England's eyes darted as he took into account America's body language, and, of course, he deducted that (as anybody in the right mind would be) America was nervous, perhaps a bit scared, even. Understandable, considering that England was basically asking to rip his skin open with a can lid and fish into his muscles to bring out a piece of what could possibly be a tiny piece of metal or rust that risked passing unseen through all the blood. That, and he risked getting him re-infected with all the unsanitary equipment he'd use, most of all his hands. He didn't have any kind of painkiller or anesthetic either, so America would have to suffer, something that he did not want to impose on his lover. That, and if he did this, recovery time for his leg to be functional again would get them stuck there for a little bit longer.

"Alright," he found himself saying nonetheless, and drew back, wiping his slightly bloody hands on his bloodied wife beater. "Let's... Let's do this. I'll do my best to minimize the pain. Lie down, alright?" he moved a bit uncertainly, taking their backpack and unzipping it. He pulled out a can of mushrooms (those were inedible unless cooked, too, and didn't carry much nutritional value as compared to beans), and inspected it before nodding to himself and pulling out his knife.

He stabbed the can lid, opening a gap large enough for two of his fingers to fit, and slipped his fingers in, pulling. The metal cut into his skin, which brought momentary concerns of mixing blood during the makeshift surgery, but America would be able to take it in small quantities. He might infect himself with whatever America had in the process, but it didn't really matter at this point. The can lid budged just a little at first, but as England's muscles quivered in effort, it moved more and more until it tore right off the can. England took a moment of catch his breath, and then picked up their water bottle. A sparse amount of water was used to clean the blood off the metal, and another bit was used to clean England's hands as much as possible.

"Alright," he then nodded, pulling his wife beater over his head again. Though it immediately got colder, he knew he needed the damp cloth for what he was about to do. He also pulled off his belt with a little bit of trouble and began securing it extremely tightly around America's thigh. "I've made a tourniquet here. Put this over your eyes." He handed him the wife beater. "You'll be fine."

[America]

America did lay back as England told him to, clenching his fingers into his palms and taking deep, steady breaths. He really wasn't looking forward to it. Who in their right mind would look forward to having his skin sliced open with a can lid? If America could find the guy who enjoyed it, he'd have to give him a handshake. Either that, or a doctor's checkup. Pain wasn't supposed to be enjoyable.

When he heard the sound of the can being ripped apart, he kept his eyes shut. He wouldn't be able to handle anything if he saw the materials being used to cut through his skin. Knowing was enough; seeing would just make it all the more real. He had half a mind just to call it off, but sheer determination kept him going. That, and common sense. They weren't just going to leave his wound infected; who knew how long they'd be stuck there? America would rather hurt now than later.

It's just for a few moments, he assured himself. Just a few moments of pain.

Opening his eyes when he heard England's voice once more, America swallowed nervously. Oh, god, they were really going to do this, weren't they? No going back once he put the wife beater over his eyes. "Yeah," he mumbled, nodding. His head felt heavy and dizzy, and as he put the damp material across his face, he instantly felt more relieved. Of course, that relief wasn't going to last, and he knew it.

He wished England wasn't the one actually cutting into him. He needed to hold his hand.

"Okay," he said, nodding again from behind the wife beater. "O-Okay, I'm ready." As ready as he'd ever be, anyway. His leg twitched involuntarily, both from the tightness of the belt and anticipation itself, and he held his breath, waiting for England to start.

[England]

"Okay," England gulped down, hesitating with what to do a little bit before figuring that he needed to make America as comfortable as possible. Zipping the bag up, he gently supported America's neck and lifted his head a little, setting it back down on the bag and brushing his hair back in a comforting move. He was briefly tempted to kiss his forehead, too, but figured that he'd spent enough time dawdling already and every second he spent was another second where America had to dread what would follow. He had better get it over with soon.

Thinking for a second, he also decided to pull America's belt off, fumbling with the buckle a little awkwardly, and then bent the leather a few times to make a thick leather patch.

"Bite on this if it hurts so that you don't bite your tongue," he instructed a bit quieter, feeling his heart jump in his chest as he slowly grasped America's cheeks and coaxed his mouth open to slip the leather into it. He hesitantly let go of his face afterwards and patted his cheek affectionately. "Stiff upper lip, poppet. I'm sorry."

That being out of the way, he switched his attention back to his leg. It had begun bleeding again, and England knew he'd be seeing more blood before it was all over. Making sure that his tunic was still next to him, he took a deep breath and lowered the can lid down, until it was touching the edges of the wound. He stabilized the leg with his other hand.

"Alright. I'm going in, on three. One, two," he tightened his grip and visualized his movement in his head. "Three." And he pushed one of the jagged edges of the can lid into America's wound, wincing at all the blood that came out. "If you ever want me to stop, throw the wife beater at me. You'll be fine. It won't take long," he comforted, and then began cutting.

[America]

America allowed the leather belt to slide into his mouth with no resistance. He had wanted to show that he was brave, that he could go through this make-shift surgery without having to use anything as a comfort device. However, he knew the belt was also for his own protection, so he was going to keep it there and use it.

Though he'd much rather have England's hand. He'd much rather it stay there on his cheek throughout the entire time. If he was going to have a life jacket, he didn't want it to be a belt; he wanted it to be England. It wasn't helping him to know that this was his boyfriend cutting into his leg. Still, he nodded at England's words, a little bit more jerkily than he probably should have. He didn't really care at this point. He could feel the edges of the can touch his leg, touch the wound on his leg, and he stiffened, taking deep breaths through his nose.

Once England gave the word, America had a few seconds to steel himself before he felt the undeniable sting of metal tearing into his skin. He gave a choked gasp, trying with all his might not to move away. His instincts told him to kick out, to writhe, to run, but he had to stay put. He was going to do this, and he was going to do it with all the strength he could muster.

As it continued ripping into his wound, though, he had to bite down hard on the belt, and he couldn't hold back his own pathetic whimpers and sobs. He was thankful for what England had done to make him partially comfortable, of course, but it was helping very little against the pain.

He dug his finger nails into his palms, trying to direct the pain elsewhere, but even that wasn't working.

Hurry, he wanted to say. England, please hurry.

[England]

The sound of sliced flesh was disgusting to England's ears, even more so when he reminded himself that it was America's skin and muscles that he was tearing. Taking a deep breath, he sawed through the left side of the injury, cutting out about an extra inch of skin, and then removed the bloodied can lid and set it back down against the right side of the wound. Squelching rang out in the air again and England felt sick as he sliced the raw tissues below America's skin, wanting to go quickly, but going painfully slowly by necessity. He steadied his hands, though he was visibly trembling, grip slipping on the blood slicking his skin.

"Okay," he exhaled with a shudder, eyes darting across the bloody mess of America's leg, all hues of red mixing together in a macabre painting. The now bigger wound was deep enough to require stitches, and England had nothing to make those stitches with. Hopefully, America's wound would heal before he got too weak from blood loss. He may have had regenerative powers, but recreating blood was a more complicated process that would take a couple of days depending on how much he'd lost.

Shakily wiping some of the blood away from his canvas using his tunic, England put the lid down on the ground and wiped his bloodied hands on his tunic before reaching down to place them at the edged of the cut. He was hesitating now, absolutely repulsed with the idea of putting his fingers in there and hurting America even more. So couldn't stop now, though. They were almost done.

"You're doing great," he insisted in a tense breath, taking a moment to push some stray hair out his cloth-covered face, and smearing blood all over his forehead. Biting his lip, he hesitated again before setting his hand on his cheek and caressing him briefly. Blood tainted America's pale skin, and England immediately drew back to concentrate on his task. "Alright. We're almost done. I'm going to find the intruder and pull it out, alright? You're alright still."

[America]

Even if America wanted to respond, the belt in his mouth made him unable to do so. Not that he minded. He was so light-headed and dizzy that he felt unable to make a coherent sentence, and focusing on keeping the pain at bay was his top priority at the moment. He squeezed his eyes shut from behind the sheet, and wished that England had kept his hand on his skin, as cold and clammy as he was.

As fearful as he was.

England was basically about to dig his fingers down into the wound and pull out whatever it was that was causing the infection. England was going to dig into his skin. But, hey, he had already sliced through the wound. America might as well let him continue, since doing otherwise would be foolish. He would just have an even larger wound on his skin for no reason. They might as well accomplish something while they were at it.

He nodded quickly, knuckles scraping across the ground beneath him. He was the hero. He could handle it. Only a few more minutes, and then it would all be fine. England would find the source of the infection and pull it out and then everything would just go back to normal and America could finish working on an escape plan.

Which, actually, he wanted to do now. He wanted to think of anything but the intensified pain that was about to strike. A plan of escape seemed like the best option. It would be productive, and it would give him a means to get over the experience he was about to go through. He bit down harshly on the belt, feeling drool trail down his cheek. A plan- he needed a plan.

[England]

England gave himself another moment to calm his nerves and make sure that America was still willing to go on, and then lowered his hand again, caressing the jagged line that was his wound before setting three of his fingers against the slit.

"Breathe in and breathe out," was the only advice he offered before slowly pushing his fingers into the cut. His left hand scrambled for purchase on the skin as he held the wound open for his right hand. His fingers delved about two joins in before they hit resistance and even then, England knew he'd gone a bit far.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed and took a deep breath. And then he leaned in and began prodding.

A scary amount of blood spurted out and made him readjust his grip a few times. His fingertips ran across the inner walls of America's thigh, quivering, torn muscles scratching against his skin, and the smell of pus was overwhelming by the time he got a first look done.

He'd still found nothing by the time America's leg began spasming. England was awaiting it, as it was completely natural for the involuntary movement to plague the poor boy, but America's strength, as usual, immediately took him off guard and caused his fingers to jostle around in the wound a little.

Grunting, England carefully moved, reaching one leg over America's spasming limb, and then pulling his weight over so that he was straddling his knee. The movement now less obtrusive, England continued his search.

His breath caught in his throat when his fingers touched something sharp.