At 5:47am, Inspector Giuseppe Costa should have been at home, snug under the covers with his wife beside him and the dog curled at the foot of the bed. Instead, he found himself by the riverbank, shivering in the morning wind, watching police officers working away around a body that had been dredged from the water. At least, he presumed it was a body; he hadn't gotten a good look, and anyway in the semi-darkness it was too hard to tell. Besides, in his line of work there wasn't much else they found wrapped up and dumped in the river like that. He only hoped the poor fellow inside hadn't suffered much before passing on…

"The body was found at 5:12am," an officer told him. "We got reports last night around 10:30pm of two men disposing of a package up by Vittoria. Chief called you here because there's something strange about it."

The inspector raised an eyebrow. "Strange?"

"Well—yes. Have a look."

Costa knelt by the body. It was a young child, around five or six years old—same age as his little Rosa, he thought solemnly—the eyes half-open and staring glassily into space, tendrils of dark hair clinging to the pallid grey face. With a gloved hand, he tilted the head for a better look and was surprised to discover blood under the lips. He flashed his penlight at the face; the boy was dead, all right, but he couldn't help but feel a little unnerved. Something definitely seemed off…

Trying to shake off his apprehension, he turned his attention to the clothing. The body was clad loosely in an oversized button-front that went down to the thighs, where it was tucked under a pair of equally oversized trousers. In fact, he thought, lifting the waistband to reveal a pair of men's underwear, it was as though this kid had been wearing an adult's clothing at the time of death. He slid a hand into the back pant pocket and retrieved a waterlogged wallet, flipping it open to the driver's license.

Fernandez Carriedo, Antonio. 12-02-1986. España.

The grainy photo of a cheerful young man smiled up at him. Inspector Costa looked from the picture to the body and back again, wondering what kind of relationship the two shared, and why this boy would be carrying this ID on him. He put the wallet in an evidence bag and turned it over to an officer standing by.

Removing the shirt, he scanned the torso for signs of trauma and found none. He did notice, when he rolled the body over to examine the back, that it was unusually soft and supple; by this time rigor mortis should have set in. Unless…?

Charily, he shone light at the boy's eyes, and though he was expecting some sort of uncanny response, the sight of the pupils constricting still jolted him, nearly causing him to drop the light. He checked for other vital signs. There was no breathing, but he thought he detected a faint pulse. Drawing in a shaky breath, he turned to the policemen behind him.

"Y-you." He motioned to one of them.

"Yes?"

"Call an ambulance." Costa swallowed. "He's alive."

"Nnh… G-goddamnit …"

Romano was roused from his sleep by the sound of the phone. With a drowsy groan, he thrust out an arm, only to find the bedside table gone. "What…" He rolled onto his stomach to investigate and let out a startled yelp when the mattress beneath him suddenly disappeared. "Sh-shit!" Picking himself up from the floor, he realized that he wasn't in his bedroom—if the couch he'd just rolled off was any indication. Slowly he managed to recall that he had fallen asleep in the living room while waiting for Spain.

Speaking of which, where was that stupid tomato bastard?

By this time the ringing had stopped, and through the answering machine Romano heard the person he least wanted to deal with this early in the morning…

"Ve, fratello, it's me! Are you there? P-please pick up! This is really important! Oh, i-it's terrible! I just—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, what do you want?" Romano snapped as he grabbed the receiver.

"Th-the p-p-police c-called me a-and they—th-they said…" Italy hiccoughed. "They—they—th—"

"They what?" Romano searched through the house while talking to his brother. Maybe Spain had let himself in (as was often the case…) late last night, after the Italian had fallen asleep. "…Hey. You didn't do anything illegal, did you?"

With a sinking heart, he found that everything in the house was as he'd left it the night before. There was no sign at all that Spain had ever shown up. Damn it, bastard, where the hell are you?

"N-no! It wasn't me, I swear! Ve, th-they told me…" He took a deep breath. "They found Big Brother Spain's stuff in the river! A-and… um… how do I put this…"

"What is it?" Panic rose in Romano's chest. "What? Tell me!"

"H-he's at the hospital, ve."

"He's… he's… wh-what?" Romano felt his legs give way. "H-how? W-will he be okay? Is it really bad?"

"…I-I think it would be better if you came to s-see for yourself."

Instantly, images of the carefree Hispanic in critical condition came to mind. Trying to maintain his composure, he stuttered, "I-I'll be there right away."

"Si…" Italy paused. "Please come quickly." There was a solemn click as he hung up.

Romano numbly returned the phone to its holder, his mind racing. What on earth was going on? How the hell had this happened? "Damn it!" he swore as he grabbed his car keys from the drawer. "You better be alive when I get there, jerk!" He heaved a long, heavy sigh.

"Please…"

~۞~

He arrived at the hospital at 8:30am, swerving into the first parking space he saw, storming noisily down the hallway. The nurse behind the counter shot him an ugly look when he burst through the door and started barking at her without even stopping to catch his breath. Nevertheless, she gave him the room number, along with a grumpily-mumbled, "Don't wake the whole hospital while you're at it", to which Romano barely paid heed before dashing for the stairs. "And no running in the halls!" she called after him, though by then he had already disappeared from view.

When he reached the room, Italy was there, sitting by the hospital bed with a pale look of worry on his face. "Fratello!" he cried, rushing up to help his brother as the latter doubled over, panting. "Ve, d-don't worry, the doctor said Big Brother Spain will be okay, h-he just hasn't woken up yet…" He bit his lip, a troubled look in his eyes. "But… well…"

Peering over Italy's shoulder, Romano saw the occupant of the bed. His eyes widened. "V-Veneziano… i-is that really…?"

Italy nodded sombrely. "It was really bad, ve. Boss even had to come and clear things up earlier… The doctor doesn't know yet what happened to him, he said he's still running tests on Big Brother Spain's samples…"

Romano tentatively approached the bed, feeling a lump well up in his throat as he looked down at the small form lying there helplessly. It occurred to him, as he gingerly touched the bandages swathed around that little head, heard the whisper of his breath and the steady beep of the heart monitor, took that small hand (so frightfully cold) in his, that he'd never seen Spain so… vulnerable. Spain had always been the stronger one, the one who led the way, and yet here he was, reduced to such a state…

"Goddamnit, Spain," he mumbled, clutching the other nation's hand tightly, "y-you better wake up s-soon, or I won't forgive you…" He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair out of the boy's face.

As if in response, Spain's hand suddenly squeezed back. Romano watched with bated breath as the Spaniard's eyelids slowly fluttered open. When the piercing green eyes locked on him Romano couldn't help but smile. "Y-you jerk," he stammered, trying to hide under a forced scowl, "h-how dare you m-make me worry about y-you." He blushed. Behind him, Italy was making little awe-filled "ve" sounds. He wanted to kick his little brother out and tell him to shut up. Trying to ignore Italy, he asked Spain, "So a-are you okay? What happened to you?"

He was met with nothing more than a blank stare. "H-hey, tomato bastard. What's wrong?" Romano waved a hand in front of Spain's face.

Spain continued staring at him. He opened his mouth to speak but summoned only a dull rasp before succumbing to a fit of coughing. When he tried to speak again Roman held out a hand to silence him. Looking around, he scavenged a piece of scrap paper and a pen from his breast pocket and gave them to Spain. When the latter had finished writing, he held up the paper, and Romano read, in the shaky scribbling of someone struggling to hold a pen:

I'm sorry, but who are you?

Sorry it took so long.