Stranded [England] [Complete]

[America]

America had started breathing in and out by the time England ordered him to, his body trembling in anxiety. He was ready. He was ready, and he could just ignore the pain and try thinking up a brilliant escape plan so that they would be back at the warehouse in no time at all. He wouldn't have to worry about the pain so long as he was busy thinking about something else that could make him forget the pain.

Of course, once England's fingers pushed down into the wound, America forgot all about the plans. He gave muffled cries from behind the belt, biting down with renewed effort. He wished he had something to hold onto. He wished he had something to squeeze, something to comfort him. As it was, though, all he could do was ball his hands up in fists and try and pretend he was holding something.

Choked sobs spilled from his mouth, and he felt the first few tears slip out of his eyes, rolling down his temple as he silently cried.

He felt England reposition himself, but that was all he could feel, besides the constant prodding of fingers inside his wound. He could feel them running against the various muscles, the tissues, the everything. He was pretty certain that he'd rather take the sickness than this. Last time such a surgery had been performed on him, he was fighting in one of the World Wars. He hadn't felt this sort of fear and pain in a while. He wanted to stop England, but, once again, his pride kept him from doing so.

Shoulders quaking, hands shaking, all America could do was lay in wait for everything to be over.

[England]

England was, for once, grateful for the moans of the undead. They were loud and distracted him, so when he filtered them out, he also filtered out any other noise that could break his concentration. And, as a brief look to America's face proved, that also included the small sobs escaping his heaving lungs. He was glad he could not hear those, because he would immediately have stopped if he did. And he was so, so close to getting it all done.

He hadn't gone deep enough to hit bone or cartilage, so whatever it was that he'd touched was definitely what he was looking for. It reminded him of a few shrapnel surgeries he'd performed during wars he'd participated in, and he knew by experience how badly it could go if England damaged America's tissues while pulling it out, or, even worse, if he pulled out a string of muscle instead of the shrapnel. To make sure that he'd gotten the right thing, he pulled the wound open a little more and tried to get a look inside.

It didn't really work out the way he wanted it to, and he felt stupid for even trying. There was way too much blood for him to make out any distinctive shape in that mess. He could see that he was grasping something between his fingers, but he couldn't see what it was. Trusting his senses, though, he decided to pull it out before America had to suffer even more.

"Shh, shh, we're almost done. I've got it," he comforted, concentration completely on his bloodied fingers as he slowly, painfully slowly, but surely pulled the piece of metal out. The squelching noise of blood pumping and muscles rubbing against skin made him sick, but he swallowed it down and tried to filter out the sickening noise just as he'd filtered out everything else.

He could not have been more relieved when the tip of his fingers finally slid out of America's injury, carrying between them a tiny piece of metal.

[America]

He was unsure exactly of England's intentions. When his wound was pulled open just that much more, America gave a muffled gasp which turned into a soft cry. He completely tensed up, arching his back slightly in pain. The tears continued to drop down his face from behind the wife beater, and he just wanted everything to stop. Why was England opening it wider? Wasn't it opened wide enough? Couldn't he see it enough? If nothing was to be found, why both continuing the efforts if it was just going to bring along more pain?

Then, when America heard the words, "I've got it," he whimpered. Almost over, that meant. Everything was almost over, then America could be wrapped up and start the healing process, which would be much less awful.

He could feel England's fingers coming out from his thigh, and he breathed deeply. In and out, he told himself, except it ended up coming more sporadically then he actually wanted it to. It sounded harsh, more like he was, well, crying. And while that hit the mark, America didn't want it to look that way. He had to show he was calm, he was alright. It was just a small wound, after all. A small wound that had been made larger and was no being dug into by England's fingers.

Once he felt the invading hand leave his wound, he relaxed just slightly, giving himself a little bit to recover from everything. The cut was still throbbing, but he at least felt a little better now that it wasn't being torn open and searched. And he hoped it would stay like it was now. He hoped England had gotten everything out and they could wrap it up and he could sleep for an infinity.

[England]

"We're done," England announced, flicking the piece of rust or nail or metal or whatever it was, all soaked up in blood like that. He did not take a breather, though, before he began struggling with his tunic sleeve, using his knife to rip it off of the tunic and then cutting it into smaller piece of bandage. The long strips of cloth, still slightly damp, were prepared in no time, and then England got busy with bandaging his leg up. His fingers slipped on all the blood rolling off his thigh, but he managed to squeeze the skin around the wound together, and then painstakingly set a first layer of bandages.

"Are you alright?" he asked in order to dispel the quiet, and tightly tied the rest of the bandages. He was glad that the mess was over. He didn't usually get queasy with gory images, long past having been habituated to them, but it certainly was unpleasant, especially since it was his lover he was operating on. Gently taking his chin, and unfortunately smudging his face full of blood, he removed the belt from his mouth. He then unfolded it and tied it a bit more loosely around the wound itself, creating a slightly uncomfortable, but necessary pressure. He then covered it all with another strip of cloth and tightened it up.

"Okay. I'm done," he finally announced, moving off his leg and scooting over next to his face. He pulled the wife beater off of his eyes and wiped his hands on it, then wiped the blood all over America's face. "Are you alright?" he breathed, looking into his red-rimmed eyes for a sign of additional pain or discomfort.

[America]

Only when England announced they were done did America calm down. He let his tense body fully relax now, taking one deep breath to calm himself. Alright, so it wasn't completely awful. He survived it, and it seemed England was able to get whatever-it-was out of his skin. He stayed still until England took the belt out of his mouth, then he took in a gasp of air and let it slowly out, nodding his head.

He winced at the tight bandages, but he was well aware that they were better than just leaving his wound to fester.

When the wife beater was taken away, America opened his eyes with effort, the sun and his own tears making it difficult to do anything other than narrow them. However, he smiled widely, then nodded his head once more. "Yeah," he muttered, pushing up onto his elbows and glancing down at his wound. It was bandaged, yes, but there was still blood everywhere. America sighed when he took it all in, shaking his head. "Lot of blood," he commented, bringing a hand up to wipe at his tear-streaked cheeks. "Didn't realize I'd lose that much blood."

He still managed to grin at England, still trying to dispel the pain he was feeling. It would take a little bit for the wound to stop stinging and throbbing. "What was it?" he asked. "In there, I mean."

[England]

"No idea," England shrugged, cleaning his hands as best as he could, and then wincing as he pulled his blood-soaked wife beater over his head. The blood stuck to his skin and he felt disgusting just touching it longer than he had to. "It was probably a piece of rusted metal. Maybe the head of a nail, like you thought. It was too covered in blood for me to tell. Either way, it's out now, so just concentrate on healing and getting rid of that fever," he told him. "Be in tip top shape for when we make a run for it."

He then pulled his ripped tunic over his shoulders, and sighed as he realized that he looked like an idiot with one sleeve. Picking up his knife, he painstakingly twisted his limbs to cut off his second sleeve and slide it off his arm. A quick moment later, the cloth was turned into much-needed bandages.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. You're alright now, though." He wasn't sure who he was comforting anymore, so to be sure, he leaned in and kissed America's forehead, lips feeling rough against the trace feeling of residue blood on his skin.

He then laid back on his knees and ran a hand through America's hair comfortingly. He was glad that it was over, but this was just one more chapter in their story... which did not have a definite ending yet. They had yet to escape, and now, England was sure that the zombies knew of their presence. With the stench of blood permeating the air, it was sure that the smell had wafted over to the door, which was not as far as it seemed.

"Well... You should sleep to accelerate the recovery process. We should get moving soon... If the stench of living flesh has not attracted all the zombies in the fucking city to this very building."

[America]

"'Msorry," America apologized, noting how the zombies seemed a little bit more driven to get out from their prison. He knew it wasn't fully his fault, but they could trace the entire thing right back to his own mistake from the other day. It was a bit of a stretch, of course, but all of this had still happened because of him. If he hadn't cried out or shot the zombie, then the others wouldn't have heard, and they wouldn't have had to run away.

He sighed and stared at England for a few seconds before giving a slightly shaky smile. "You should get some sleep, too, you know. You've done a lot today." He glanced down at the bloody clothes pointedly. "Anyone who deals with all of that deserves a little bit of rest."

Besides that, America would very much enjoy having England there to hold his hand until they both fell into the comforting bliss of peace. His lover wasn't able to hold his hand at all during the surgery, so now would be as good of a time as ever to make up for what all had just happened.

Trying to convey his own personal needs, he reached out and grabbed England's hand, ignoring the blood that had dried onto it. "It would do us both some good," he added, squeezing the hand in his possession gently. Even if England didn't agree to take a nap with him, perhaps he would sit there until America did fall asleep. Perhaps he would hold his hand and stick close, humming or talking him to sleep, just as he used to back in the colonial days.

[England]

"I can't sleep. Not now. I just woke up, and..." And he'd just dissected a part of his lover's leg. There was no way that he'd be able to close his eyes now without feeling remorse or regrets and 'I should have' thoughts. "Anyway. Doesn't matter. Point is, I'll stay awake, but you need your sleep." He squeezed his hand. "Come on."

Shifting, he slid to his leg and momentarily let go of his hand in order to prop the limb up on the roof's edge to elevate the injury high above his heart level. He then carefully undid the tourniquet and hastily tied his belt around his waist before returning to his side. Lifting his lover's head and shoulders a little, he slipped his thigh underneath and stretched his legs out, letting America's head rest on what he figured was probably the softest part of his body.

The position would probably give him a back ache at some point, but even then, he'd just be able to lay back and he'd find himself sprawled on the rooftop, so it did not matter much. As long as America was comfortable enough to get some deep sleep (as deep of a sleep as anyone could get nowadays), nothing else mattered.

"There," he announced, one hand sliding into America's hair and the other finding his fingers again to squeeze comfortingly. "Are you alright like this?" he asked, carding his fingers through the occasional knot in his hair, and scratching the base of his neck. "Do you feel lightheaded?"

[America]

America was going to protest England's refusal to get any sleep, but then he was jostled and moved around quite a bit, and wasn't able to get a word in before he found himself resting on England's thigh, which was much more comfortable than the bag. Plus, England's fingers were massaging at his scalp and neck, and the other fingers were intertwined in America's own. He couldn't complain, not like this.

"Mm, a little lightheaded," he responded, smiling brightly up at England. "But it isn't gonna stay." He shifted around slightly, making sure not to move his leg too much, and then closed his eyes, squeezing back on England's hand. He still wished his partner would also get some sleep, but he was well aware that there was no forcing sleep on him.

He sighed, resting his free hand on his chest. "If you need sleep, just tell me," he mumbled, already drifting off. Despite the fact that he had a good amount of sleep, the combination of the small fever and the painful surgery had taken their toll on him, and he was now ready to drift off once more. "I'll wake up and we can switch positions."

There was no way he was going to just make England stay up the entire time. No, if he could be of some use to his boyfriend, he'd do anything. He'd risk his life making sure England was comfortable and safe, even if England didn't wish for him to. "I love you," he said, already feeling like sleep was taking him over. "Don't leave, okay?"

[England]

"I wouldn't even dream of it, my sweet. Not now, not ever," England let a shy smile grace his face, and gazed lovingly into America's eyes, caressing his skin thoughtfully. He gave himself a few of these peaceful seconds before sighing and abruptly bringing his boyfriend's hand up to kiss the back of it.

"Alright, get some sleep. If you feel dizzy still after waking up, you can have a cake to raise your blood sugar level. Not the ideal kind of sugar, but hey, if we lived in an ideal world, I'd be back home in London on a clear night, letting you sleep in my lap to the noise of some movie on the telly and to the smell of tea and coffee in the air." His smile dropped into a sadder one and he tapped America's cheek affectionately. "Maybe one day."

And he left it at that, his tone making it clear that the conversation was over.

He doubted that he'd be able to do anything substantial to pass the time while America slept, so he picked up the two earplugs from where they'd fallen and put them into his ears. Noise filtered out immediately, not enough to keep everything out, but enough to drown the incessant moaning.

Carding his fingers through America's hair mechanically, England let his thoughts wander and hoped that time would pass faster.

[America]

TIME-SKIP

When America awoke once more, he found himself still situated on England's legs, still in the exact same position he was when he had gone to sleep. Meaning, damn, he knew he got a pretty good sleep. He sighed contently, then opened his eyes. His leg didn't hurt as much anymore; the throbbing was gone. He felt a slight soreness there, but, otherwise, it seemed fine. He attempted to move it, but quickly realized something else while he stared up at the sky.

It was afternoon.

Mid-afternoon, late afternoon, it didn't matter; the fact stood that it was afternoon. He slept for longer than he had wanted to. He slept on top of England longer than he wanted to. With alarm, he sat straight up, quickly turning to face England (and slamming his leg down on the ground while he was at it).

"How many hours was that?" he asked, staring at his partner for a few seconds before glancing over at the door. The zombies were still at it, still unable to come fully up onto the roof, which America supposed was a good thing. At least he didn't sleep through anything too important. He would have killed himself if England had sat there shooting zombies while he snoozed through the whole thing.

[England]

England was ashamed to admit to himself that he'd fallen into some light snoozing as America rested up. It hadn't been his fault. After hours of constantly switching his position between sitting and lying down, counting zombie fingers in the doorway and clouds in the sky, thinking of a thousand different unreasonable escape plans, he'd gotten bored. And then, the most dangerous game had begun. With nothing left to do and his earplugs barely keeping the moans out, he'd desperately tried to find something to do before he had to concentrate on the flesh-eating monsters at their door.

In the end, he'd leaned his elbows on his thighs and had hunched over to lay his head on his hands in hopes of getting a little sleep. He hadn't slept per se, but had drifted in and out of consciousness, which was good enough to keep him occupied for a while. It was better than sleep in this situation, too, since he had to be on high alert at all times.

It was especially useful when America shifted during one of his conscious moments, immediately rousing him into attention, back straightening and cracking painfully. He winced and cracked his joints, grunting in discomfort, and looked passively as America sat up and woke up, just as he was stumbling back into consciousness.

"Dunno. I don't really have any communication devices on me. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, though, it has to be some time in the early afternoon and beginning evening. Perhaps around five or six o' clock." He shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "So how's your leg?"

[America]

"Ugh." America rubbed at his eyes, trying not to look too guilty. He had just meant to take a quick nap. He could see that England was in an uncomfortable position for such a long amount of time, and he had been counting on the fact that he would be able to wake up soon enough to give his partner a break. But, no, he didn't wake up. He had gone to sleep for longer than he wanted to think about, leaving England to stay hunched over like that.

"Leg's fine," he muttered, deciding that the sores it felt could easily be dismissed. It wasn't worth England's time or worry. England had already done enough, and America didn't want for him to have to do anymore. Besides, he just had surgery preformed on him; of course it was going to hurt a little. "How're you feeling?" Just to throw England's question right back to him and give him something else to think about.

Of course, that's when America realized how hungry he was. His stomach growled and, embarrassed, he slapped a hand across it, though it did nothing to quell the sounds.

If he had stopped to give it some thought, it was obvious that he was bound to be hungry. He hadn't eaten since the other night, and that was just a small chocolate bar, something that could barely hold him through the night. He certainly wasn't looking forward to another chocolate bar and a sip of water. While he enjoyed such things back at home, that was with the knowledge that he had other things to eat. This was all they had, and America mentally despaired with the knowledge that they would have to make do with it for the next couple of days.

[England]

"Glad to hear. I probably tied it too tight in the first place, so I'll loosen it up so that the few arterioles I probably killed with my awful bandage-tying skills have the opportunity to regenerate," England chuckled, scooting over to America's leg. "Have a packet of cake and a chewy bar. You'll definitely need the sugar to keep you going," he instructed, cracking his fingers and knuckles before beginning to untie the tight knot of bandages. He peeled the first bloody layer off, and then undid the belt that had been tied around the injury for extra pressure. He then undid the second layer of bandages and got a good look at the injury.

It obviously had gotten the time to heal some internal damage, and had gotten less deep than before, but America's body hadn't been able to close it entirely. Probably the lack of energy. Maybe the consumption of a few cakes would help him. They had about a dozen in the bag, so they could still spare a few.

Re-tying the first layer of relatively clean bandages over the bleeding injury, England followed with the strips of cloth he'd cut his second sleeve into and dressed the wound as properly as he could. He then sat back and patted the injury carefully.

"Give me one of those, too, and throw me a water bottle. You can go ahead and have a second cake, since you need the sugar and all to heal better. Have a bit more water, too," he told him in a tone that left no room for argument, and then rubbed his bare arms, leaving little spots of blood wherever he touched.

[America]

"Two cakes?" America said in mock surprise. "You're spoiling me, England." He kept his leg in place and grabbed one of the bags, searching through it to try and find the snacks. Fortunately, it seemed they would have enough to last them a few more days, and America did hope that it only took a few more days for him to devise and escape. He could work on a plan later tonight, and then they wouldn't even have to waste anymore of the food.

He found what he needed rather quickly, and placed on his lap three cakes and one chewy bar. "Here," he said, passing England one of the cakes, feeling bad for taking the majority of the food. He knew England said he needed it, but he couldn't help but wish his meal would be the same as England's meal. "Um...here. You can have the chewy bar, too." He grinned and handed it over, hoping to talk quick enough so that England wouldn't have a chance to give it back. "I'm gonna get so sick of them if I have to eat anymore, I swear."

He stuck his hand in the bag again and brought out the water bottle, taking one large gulp before setting that beside him. "There. Now we can eat." And maybe England actually would eat what was given to him. He was bound to be hungry, too.

Wanting to make some form of conversation, he gestured towards his leg, biting on his cake. "How, uh, how does it look? You think I can make a speedy escape by, like, tomorrow? Since I'm devising the plan right now." He smiled again, chewing thoughtfully. If they had a ladder, things would be easier, but it didn't look as if there was a ladder anywhere. They could climb down from the building itself, but that would be trickier. But, still, the problem of the zombies outweighed all other problems.