Alfred woke up in his bed the next morning with a dull pain in his lower back.

Wait.

This was his bed.

In his house.

He was home!

He smelled coffee being brewed in the kitchen. He also smelled… Bacon? He wasn't particularly hungry, but he did want to see who was cooking in his house. He threw the comforter off him and swung his legs over the the side of the bed. For some reason, hey felt heavier today. His feet touched the carpet. Nothing. He couldn't feel the carpet under his toes. He couldn't feel anything. Alfred started to panic. Thoughts rushed around in his head trying to make sense of the situation. He should have healed, good as new. Why hadn't he?

His nation.

His country was still battling a civil war, his government was still falling. His lifeline was being pulled thin. It was the only explanation. He tried to stand up, but as soon as he pushed off the bed he landed face first into the carpet. He propped himself on his elbows and looked around the room. It took him a few seconds to register that his glasses were on his bedside table. With shaking hands, he put them on. His heart pounded, filled with panic. His eyes settled in the corner of his room. There was a wheelchair, perfectly placed in plain sight, waiting for him. Momma knew this would happen. How much had he told her? He didn't know. He crawled his way over to the chair, dragging his body across the room. He was surprised at how weak he'd become. His arms screamed with every inch of effort put into them. Getting across the room was one battle, but he had no clue how he was going to pull himself up onto the chair. He turned it around and tried to figure out where the breaks on the wheels were. Once he found them, he made his way to the front of the chair. He took a break for a few seconds before pulling himself up onto the chair. It took a few tries, but eventually he was sitting comfortably in it. He undid the breaks and pushed himself into the bathroom.

He hadn't had a mirror in a year, and boy, did he not recognize the person staring back at him. He couldn't see his waist or legs before the counter, but what he could see was a clear indicator in itself. He was thin. People had told him he was thin in the compound all the time, but this was different. He'd never seen a nation so thin, and that was saying something, given Kiku was the thinnest country in the organization. But even then, Japan had muscle under his clothing. When Alfred raised his shirt, he saw ribs and a sunken stomach. It wasn't as bad as it probably could have been, sure, there was always worse. He looked at his face. It was nearly grey. Color was a myth compared to the coloring of Alfred's skin. He touched his face, he could feel his cheekbones underneath his skin, and the bags under his eyes were deep and purple. He understood why the girl at the infirmary looked at him the way she did. He looked dead. His hair had grown long over the year he had been gone. In the compound he didn't mind it, but now, seeing it paired with his tired, glossy eyes and pale skin, he wanted it gone. He racked his mind, asking it where he kept a pair of clippers. He checked drawer after drawer until he found them. Once he collected what he needed, he went to work.

He had found a comb and rubber band in one of his drawers. Everything was lined with dust. Seeing his stuff abandoned, covered in time; it left a rotten taste in his mouth.

He tied his hair as close to his nape as possible and turned on the razor. He didn't know why he kept it around, he never could grow a beard anyway. Once he had cut clean through, he tossed the ponytail in the trash. He changed the face on the clippers to allow him to clip his hair without making it too short. He went to work, Running the clippers through his hair until he felt like he had done the best he could. With one last brush through with a different face, he examined his work. It wasn't like before, but it was close enough. He brushed all the hair off him and the chair and undressed. He lowered himself the the floor of the bathroom and climbed in the shower. Luckily, his shower was set up to be able to fill up like a bathtub if need be, which meant the controls were there the bathtub spigot jutted out of the wall. He thanked his past self for leaving a shampoo bottle on the floor, and got to work.

After he was done with his routine, which took three times as long and four times the amount of energy, he looked around his room for any electronics. All of them had been removed from his room. Everything that could have connected him to the outside world- gone. He was a prisoner in his own home. Drowsiness and exhaustion plagued his entire being. He no longer smelled food in his kitchen, nor did he hear movement. Cautiously, he opened his bedroom door. He was lucky he lived in a single room apartment. His bedroom lead him immediately into the living room. He looked to his left and into the kitchen. There she was, sitting at his small kitchen table, working like nothing happened. She looked up from her work and smiled.

"Have you slept well?"

"Momma-"

"Shhh, child." Momma interrupted. She walked over to him and caressed his face. She lifted his sleeve and following their routine, administering today's euphoria. Alfred didn't think to stop her. He needed it. He needed it to live, he needed it to feel good, he needed it more than his freedom. He relaxed in his chair, letting himself slouch. Momma pushed him to the table, sitting him across from her. Despite everything she's done. He couldn't find it inside himself to be mad at her. He was thankful.

"Are you in pain?" She asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She waited patiently for his answer. After a few deep breaths Alfred found it inside himself to answer.

"No… why is that, Momma.." He asked in a hushed tone.

"You've been asleep for a long time, Alfred. I wanted you to heal without pain."

Alfred was thankful to have a mother like her in his life. Even though he broke the rules and ran away. And even though she punished him for it, she made sure he didn't suffer through the pain.

"I'm sorry," She started, "I'm sorry I did that to you, but you have to understand, honey, for our cause to work we need you here. We need to keep you safe. Remember how you were forgotten? We don't want that to happen to you again."

Alfred nodded, but he wasn't particularly listening. He was just trying to enjoy his high.

"Alfred." Momma said, tracing his eyebrow with her thumb, "Wake up."

Alfred stirred in his sleep. After his first high of the day, he had decided to take a nap on the couch. He peeled his eyes open and stared at Momma. He had been living in his own home for a few months now, preparing for the big day. He was going to a world meeting for the first time in what seemed like forever. It was, really. It had been well over a year since the revolution started, and in that time, Alfred felt himself get increasingly weaker, falling from what he had been more and more every day. Momma had helped him gain weight, though he was never hungry, he ate at least two meals a day. On days where he wasn't feeling well, Momma wouldn't make him eat more than one, though. He still looked disturbingly thin, and paired with how sickly he had become, his only escape from pain was drugs. Momma had told him where they were kept, so that he could relieve himself whenever he needed, but she always kept a close eye on him. It took months to build back the trust, and she had to force dependency on him more now than ever. He was traveling alone to France for the meeting, and she couldn't risk everything by going with him.

Once Alfred woke up, she waited patiently for him to transfer himself into his wheelchair. She took him into the kitchen and fixed him a bowl of oatmeal, one of the few things he could stomach. They talked about the mission to France, which was approaching faster and faster by the day. He'd be taking a small plane that belonged to the resistance over to an allied base in the countryside. There was no worry about security there, so he wouldn't have to worry about running out of drugs, or having them being taken away from him. From there he would take a cab into the city and check into his hotel a block away from the conference hall. The do not disturb was to remain on the door at all times, and the only communication allowed is through the cell phone being given to him before the trip.

He knew what this trip might mean. He knew that me might not come back, he knew he had already given all the information he could. But this is something he needed to do, for Momma.

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