Author's Notes: This one slipped out naturally, almost too naturally. I finished it within several hours, stopping my own frantic typing to check a fact or a phrase here and there. I have never written so much so fast, especially not at seven in the morning. *Takes a deep breath* That having been said, I should explain I concieved the concept while plotting an entry into a fanfic contest on the United Nations RP Board. I tried to push for USxUK without it being akward, but there is overloads of drippy fangirling in here, so please excuse that. BUT DON'T GET THE IDEA THAT IT'S ALL SELF-CENTERED NATION FUCKING! There is none of that. Before you bother asking, yeah, that is me, yes, a lot of the facts about me in this are true, and are pulled from deep personal experience. This story was just pent up and needed to get out, so excuse me for fangirling on you.

That having been said, please review and enjoy. If I get enough response, I will post new chapters. If not, this fic is done, and there's no need for more.

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The streets were crowded. It was easy to get tousled around on them. The girl was used to this. She was used to getting roughly shoved by a person walking the opposite way. She was, after all, going against the tide of the crowd. Common sense would dictate walking along the buildings, out of the crowded flow, but then again, when did she ever have common sense, right?

It was a strange sensation when her eyes darted over the unassuming figure coming up the flow of the crowd towards her. She noted the violet eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, the wheat-coloured hair that fell just above his shoulders in gentle waves. His warm winter coat with its fur trim was not entirely out of place in the wet, chilly Vancouver fall, but the fuzzy bear he carried in his arms was.

It was huge. That had to be the biggest stuffed bear she'd ever—OOF!

It happened so suddenly. She'd been fixated on the bear, being held by the unassuming, yet amazingly cute man, and walked right into him. The impact sent her careening off to the left, off the curb, into the street. Stumbling, she regained her balance, and yelled back at the man.

"Hey watch where you're—"

The look in his eyes caused her to freeze. They were full of fear. In an instant, he pushed easily through the crowd, the bear in his arms dropping to the sidewalk, off the curb, flying towards her. Time seemed to slow to an absolute crawl as he grabbed her, pulling her to his chest, and planting his feet firmly.

"Don't be scared," she heard him whisper softly before the whole world seemed to come to a crashing halt.

---

It was a moment or two before the girl opened her eyes nervously. The man holding her seemed in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth set in a hard line. Pulling back a smidge, she noted that there was a truck behind him. It had hit him.

A truck had hit him. And they were both alive.

The truck, in fact, was dented. She could see it, even with the young man still in the way. It was almost as if the truck had hit a tree, or a telephone poll. Or a cow, the girl's brain spat out suddenly, remembering an accident from her early childhood. Like when Nana and Mom and me hit that cow, going home from Vancouver. Only…the cow thing was way messier than this. And it had been. Mom had told her not to look, but she did anyway. There was an eye dangling from the headlight, she remembered with a shutter. An entire eye, dangling by the retinal cords.

The young man holding her made a harsh sound, almost like a shuttered gasp, and a trickle of blood escaped his lips. The girl looked at the young man with wide-eyed terror.

"Oh gawd, oh…gawd…you're…oh gawd…"

The man seemed to smile then, a pained smile, but a smile nonetheless. "At least…you're not hurt…" he managed to gasp before sinking to his knees in a near faint.

"Someone get an ambulance or something!" the girl was screaming, trying to support the man. She fell to her knees, and held the man to her chest, trying to support him, trying to help in any way she could. That was how she was. She was a Canadian, goddamnit! Canadians help people!

There were the sounds of people calling for help, phones being dialled. The driver of the truck had gotten out to look at his vehicle, pushing his ragged and greasy cap back on his head in astonishment at the extensive damage done to it. The whole centre of the heavy grill was dented in, like it had collided with a steel wall. Like it had been hit head on by a bull elephant.

The girl shut out the white noise around her; the muffled gasps, the intrigued murmurs, the yelling and arguing and honking of horns, because every damned driver in Vancouver seemed to be as rude as humanly possible. She shut it all out, without much success, and concentrated on the man in her arms.

He was handsome, she noted to herself (in a way that made her slap herself inwardly, and yell at herself, reminding her she had a boyfriend!), and even with his face twisted in pain, she could see the boyish beauty of it. An annoyingly long curl of hair fell over his face, which she brushed away gently, only to have him twitch and moan in response. At least he isn't dead, she thought with a relieved inward sigh. Her eyes studied him, his hair, his glasses, and the peculiar goggles on his head.

They were very retro: fighter pilot goggles, more than likely from World War II, or around that era. They were so out of date they were chic. She felt envious of how good they looked on him suddenly. His father must have been a pilot…no, more like his grandfather…She looked at him again. He couldn't be older than me… She inwardly hated being twenty-three just then. She felt old, for no good reason.

She saw the starched collar of a nice suit under his jacket, topped off perfectly with a brown tie. A brown suit and a white winter jacket; an interesting combination, one she realized she liked, and had to terminate that tangent of naughty thought before the train de-railed completely.

While she agonized over the man in her arms, he had cracked his lids open, and, making eye contact with the bear on the sidewalk, he mouthed the words, "Get Alfred."

The bear only nodded, got up, and trotted off unnoticed into the crowds, disappearing in seconds. A seemingly impossible task for a bright white polar bear the size of a medium sized dog.

The girl stared after it. Was that…a polar bear…just now…? Couldn't be…

The girl looked down at the man again, and realized she didn't know his name at all. She cast her glance around for any obvious identification, but saw none. Not a single shred. Which seemed impossible, especially for a country girl who carried her entire wallet and purse with her everywhere she went. Everything: her BCID, her Social Insurance number, even her Care Card. People laughed at her, but she felt that being prepared was important. Because you never know.

Tomorrow, you could get H1N1 and die in the street somewhere.

Or get hit by a truck.

She shuttered, the realization sinking in more. Hastings was a busy street to begin with, but this was clogging it up three kinds of bad. The looky-loos weren't helping any, that was for damned sure.

Stop fucking staring! She wanted to scream it at them, but she couldn't. Damn it all to hell anyway…

The ambulance arrived about then in a scream of sirens, and two paramedics stepped out of the ambulance that had an "On Strike" sticker plastered across the side, and jogged briskly to the man's side. She never let go, and they never asked her to.

After a moment, someone brought the gurney, and they lifted the man gingerly onto it, wheeling him to the ambulance to lead him in. She ran beside it, still half-dazed.

"Ma'am," one of the paramedics said, addressing her, breaking her out of her semi-trance. "You can't ride unless you're immediate family."

"Y-yeah…" she mumbled. "He…he's my…brother."

They let her in, much to her surprise, and she sat beside the man, holding his hand, as they put tubes into his hand to set up an IV drip, and check his vitals, and whatever the hell paramedics do, she didn't know. She hated needles. She swallowed, looking away, feeling panic rise in her throat. But the man didn't stir. He slept, peacefully, all the way to the hospital.

They wheeled him immediately into the Emergency, and she ran beside the gurney as people started yelling questions.

"What do we have?"

"Vehicular accident. Truck."

"Vitals?"

There were some numbers thrown back and forth, and a doctor (she guessed he was a doctor anyway, with his green scrubs) ordered for something CC and milligrams or something. And then they asked for his name.

"Do we know?" someone asked.

"Ma…tthew…" came a choked, hushed response, and she looked down to see the man's bleary eyes half-open.

"Matthew…Williams…"

The girl looked into the man's eyes, and he smiled, weakly, just for her. Her heart gave a funny flutter, and she willed it to be still.

After that, it was a blur of stuff. The attendants refused her to go any farther, though she protested strongly. She was forced back to the waiting room, strangely empty of anyone at that point, and was midway through some lie about him being her brother when the doors hissed open with a rush of wind, and in barrelled a young man, his hair tousled about, his face flushed, his dark-rimmed glasses askew. He ran right up to the nurse and brashly demanded, "Where's my brother? Where's Matthew? I want to see him, now."

The nurse protested that no one was allowed past this point, but the man was insistent. As he argued loudly, in walked two more people, and a familiar white bear. One of the men was on the shorter side, with a messy crop of sandy-blond hair, and piercing green eyes that glittered from under comically bushy brows. The other was on the taller side, with long silky hair and a suave sense about him. She backed up a few steps to give the three men room.

"Damnit, I don't have time for this—!"

"Oh shut up, Alfred," the shorter man chided, his voice thickly accented with authentic British. Not that rancid crap Hollywood spewed. Thick, harsh British that rubbed your ears raw, and you loved every second of it. "The world doesn't revolve around you, no matter how much you want it too."

"But—!" Alfred protested, straightening his glasses in an almost comical manor.

"No buts!" the Brit blasted back angrily.

"Oui, oui," the tall blond added in silky French. She felt like crying. It was sooooooo much better than that Quebecois crap she had to learn in school for eight years. Fuck French as a second language; it was downright degrading to learn the same stale crap for eight years, and it wasn't even proper French, oh no! It was a blasphemy of a language, a bastard child of Metis and Latin and First Nations, and Gods only knew what else. She loathed it with the fiery passion of a million suns. She suffered through until grade nine when it was no longer mandatory, and dropped it like a hot potato. Math was hard enough without French dragging her GPA down.

Anyway, yeah. The French guy and the Brit, and this guy named Alfred. They'd been arguing for a while, and finally someone came to talk to them. She told them to be patient, and wait, and so the Brit and the Frenchman sat down, but Alfred paced the waiting room, agitatedly yanking on his gloved hands. She studied him as she waited.

He was handsome, that was obvious. (Man, what was it with sexy guys suddenly popping up all over the place as soon as she was comfortably in a long-term relationship? It had to be Fate being cruel to her again, like She always was.) The man had azure eyes that mirrored a perfect, cloudless sky, and a much brighter shade of blond than either Matthew or the Brit, closer to that Frenchman there. Yeah. Mustard blond, nice and bright.

He was dressed oddly, she noted, although she admitted it looked damn good on him. A khaki suit, blue tie, white shirt, covered with a bomber jacket she couldn't help but drool a little over. Brown leather, real leather, like the leather jacket her Dad wore on the Harley. It had a faux fur collar (She hoped it was faux, because it was too surreal to be real), and a bright, bold, white '50' on the back. A small plane emblem was on the left sleeve.

The shoes were nice, polished and professional. She watched them clack on the polish tiles of the waiting room floor for a while, until she noticed the man furiously texting, and making phone calls, blatantly ignoring the "PLEASE TURN ALL CELL PHONES AND PDAs OFF WHILE IN THE HOSPITAL THANK YOU" sign on the wall, clearly visible upon walking in.

He's a typical American, she thought, tiredly. No respect for anyone or anything but himself. What an ass.

She had no reason to assume he was American, he just…smelled like one. She couldn't explain it. And it became even more apparent when he plopped down beside her for a few minutes while tapping out an extremely long text message. He smelled like greasy McDonald's food and Starbuck's Lattes; like salt spray and asphalt; like summer winds and dingy winters; like dusty desert and damp woods. The surrealness of it made her inch back a smidge.

He didn't just smell like an American. He smelled like America.

She focused on the others, trying hard not to stare. The Brit wasn't unattractive to look at, but the brows were absurd. Like fuzzy caterpillars, clinging to his face. She wanted to touch them, and it made her finger twitch involuntarily.

He was dressed lazily, in a smart sweater vest and grey-blue shirt, matched perfectly with cream slacks and polished black shoes. He screamed British. It was in his proper posture, in his cold disinterest in his surroundings, and his occasional scathing glances at Alfred beside her.

He was like Sean Connery, but young. Before James Bond made him even sexier than he already was. He was the perfect essence of British awesome.

The Frenchman was…well…definitely French. The hair was way too silky to be anything but professionally taken care of, his clothes too rich and chic to be off the rack. He was sexy in a sort-of rugged way with his stubble, and it made her feel a slight bit…uncomfortable. She wasn't turned on, per say, but it was definitely oddly sexy, and it disturbed her. His whole presence seemed soaked in that whole "I'm-sexy-and-French, let's-have-sex-on-the-beach" persona. Really disturbing.

The man next to her, Alfred, seemed to give her a small look over, and an approving wink, and she suddenly felt betrayed by her warming cheeks. And it must have tipped off the Brit, because he looked none too pleased about it. In fact, he stood up with a huff, and marched over to Alfred with his face turning the colour of brandy.

"What the bloody hell was that, Alfred?"

Alfred blinked. "An innocent look. What? I'm not allowed to look at sexy girls every now and then, Arthur?"

Arthur…his name's Arthur, huh? Kind of sexy, just like the old Arthurian leg—Wait, back up. Sexy? Her? That…wasn't possible. She was the opposite of sexy. She was un-sexy. What with her hair that never behaved, and her glasses that made her look geeker than she already was, and her lanky body shape that made her self-conscious…

Her attention shifted to the conversation at hand, however, as Alfred stood up to look Arthur in the face.

"You're way too jealous!"

The Brit sputtered. "Jealous? ME?! I beg your pardon!"

Alfred pouted. "I take a sidelong glance at a girl, and you freak out. Just like right now. Face it, Iggy, you're jealous." He poked the Brit's nose to emphasise the point.

Iggy? Okay, that was just absurdly cute.

The Brit was sputtering by that point, and Alfred coyly smiled at him, and she read the flash in his eyes she'd seen in men before…that lusty look of predatory dominance.

Whoa. Back it up a sec. She was reading way too much into that.

The Frenchman sighed and flicked some hair from his face. "Another lover's quarrel. Ce qui est un fait reste un fait."

"Shut up, Francis!" the two men blasted in unison.

The girl shifted nervously now. She didn't want to be involved in this. It was bad enough she'd gotten someone hit by a truck—

Shit. Right. That was why she was here again.

Blessedly, it was that moment when the woman from before walked up to the men. She seemed to overlook the girl, who was grateful for this, and spoke to the three men directly. (The one they called Francis had rose to his feet as she came out, and met her as she approached the two men already standing.)

"Matthew's fine, Alfred. He'll be able to walk out of here in the morning."

"Shit, that's great," Alfred sighed, relived. The other two also gave comforted sighs. "What happened, exactly? There's only so much that a talking bear can tell you, you know."

The bear talked?

It was only then she noticed it at her feet. It was looking up at her, his black, glassy eyes focused on her, and she smiled, nervously at it. She felt an urge to pet it, and it made no attempt to back away, and she soon found herself stroking the silkiness of its thick coat, now coming in thicker to prepare for winter.

"You must be a Kermode Bear," the girl wispered to it as she stroked it lovingly. The bear made a sound akin to a purr as she scratched it under the chin.

"Hit by a truck?!" Alfred's voice, loud normally, was deafening as he blasted the statement in disbelief. The girl's head snapped up again.

The nurse (if that's what she was) seemed startled as well, and Arthur slapped Alfred on the shoulder hard, dissaprovingly. It seemed almost fatherly in a way, like a Dad slapping his son for swearing. Alfred looked at Arthur with a "What?" and Arthur simply rolled his eyes.

"He's fine, really," the nurse assured Alfred. "If he was anyone else, it would have killed him, but…I dunno. You guys are different. Knowing him, he'll be walking around like nothing is wrong in no time at all."

Different…? The statement seemed odd to the girl, and things started to feel downright bizzar. Butterflies were dancing about in her gut.

"Why was he hit by a truck?" Francis asked, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry.

The nurse suddenly realized the girl sitting behind the group, calmly stroking the bear in an attempt to be inconspituous. Everyone turned to look at her, and she felt four pairs of eyes drilling holes into her. She couldn't help but break into a cold sweat.

"Ask her," the nurse said. "She came in with him."

The girl chanced a glance, but Alfred's piercing gaze caught her before she could look away. Crap! She forced a smile as best she could, given her current state of terror.

Arthur strode swiftly over to her, and sat down beside her. Again came that overwhelming sensation; a smell that was nothing and everything at once. Smog and rain; fish and chips and beer; tea and biscuits; hibiscus and damp grass. She almost reeled at the overpoweringness of it.

"Young lady," he said to her in a calm voice. "What exactly happened?"

The girl stammered for a moment before the tears started. They were unintentional, but she was so overwhelmed by everything, and she couldn't hold it back anymore. Sobbing hysterically, she voiced the only thing that came to her mind at that moment.

"It's all my fault! It's all my fault!"

There was a pair of comforting arms around her now, strong and subtle at the same time. The smell of cigarette smoke and wine; of roses and rain; of cloying dust and wet paint; of fresh bread and sweet desserts; of musk and perfume. She sobbed uncontrollably.

"Ma jolie petite demoiselle," Francis cooed. "This is not your fault. Tell us everything."

And so she did. "I…I was walking…I was late, and in a hurry. I was headed for the Skytrain, and…and we…we bumped into each other. I stumbled into the road. And he…he…" she hiccuped suddenly. "He grabbed me. It all happened so fast, but…if I hadn't…he was just…"

The eyes on her were gentle, and she felt a hand rubbing her back soothingly. She was completely taken aback. These men…they didn't know her. And yet, here they were, comforting her, telling her that this was not her fault, and that this was what Matthew did.

"He's like that," Alfred told her. "Always helping people. It's in his nature."

The girl laughed bitterly. "Yeah, mine too. I guess that's what I get, for being Canadian."

The three men smiled at her words, as if a secret joke had been silently passed between them.

The stumble behind them caused them all to look up. Matthew was leaning on the front counter, looking pained, but mostly alright. The girl noted with horrified facination that most of the man's bruising and cuts were gone, as if healed by some form of magic.

"Matthew!" The cry escaped from three sets of lips at once. And the man looked shocked at first, and then overjoyed as they three men rushed to him to hug him tightly. The bear joined them, rubbing against Matthew's legs lovingly.

"I can't breathe," came a muffled complaint, and the three men backed off, appologing profusely. Matthew straightened his clothes, and nodded to the nurse.

"Thank you, Kathy," Matthew said, smiling at the 'nurse' (Which the girl suspected more and more wasn't really a nurse at all) before turning to the others with a soft sigh of relief. "Well, the good news is that I got over the Swine Flu just a few days ago, and they tell me it probably won't re-surface." His smile is bright. "I'm a little sad to see the ambulance workers still on-strike, but at least they aren't failing their jobs. That's a relief."

"This city is no place to take a spill," Alfred warned. "You should at least do it closer to Ottawa. "Easier to clean up, you know." He chuckled lightly.

"I know," Matthew said. "But I can't depend on everyone at Parlament all the time, now, can I? I was worried about the people here, especially since it's bound to be a cold winter this year. There are so many people without a place to stay…I don't want them to freeze." His tone grows soft at this, and he shifts his gaze to the floor for a moment before lifting it up again.

And then his eyes fell on her, and she froze, trying to swallow, but finding it impossible. His gaze is soft but incredibly strong, and she cannot tear away. He comes closer to her, his footsteps soft, as if he treds through snow instead of over hard tile floors. He takes her hands in his gloved ones, and urges her to her feet. With a smile, he looks her over, patting her cheek with a tender touch.

"You are fine, I see. That makes me glad. I would hate to see someone die…because of my carelessness."

The girl finds the tears coming back now, and he gathers her into a hug. And it hits her, that same type of smell: Damp wood and crisp snow; smoky campfire smoke and drying grass; swaying grain and salty brine. She breathes deep, knowing exactly what the smells are, and feels his hands on her cheeks now. He's taken his gloves off, stuffing them in his pockets, quite similar to what she did when it was too warm to wear her leather gloves. His hands are cold like wintry chill, but warm at the same time, like sun-kissed summers back home in the interior. And as she stares into his eyes, a slow realization dawns on her.

"Who…what…are you?"

The man smiles, his eyes sparkling like the lake back home on a clear day in June. Familiar and yet so strange to her, his whole presence. And then he speaks in his quiet, beautiful, hushed voice.

"I'm Canada."

She tries not to cry. It isn't true, it can't be true. This wasn't real. Countries don't walk around as people. It didn't happen.

But she couldn't deny what she knew to be real. His very presence was her home and native land, so beautiful and proud, so strong and graceful. She teared up yet again, choking on her own emotion.

"How…?"

Matthew—no, Canada—looked at her with the softest of smiles. "We are unique; we walk amongst the mortals, but we are not. We live until our bodies fade, either becoming new countries, or fading entirely from existence." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "We feel pain, take wounds from weapons like anyone else, but those wounds fade quickly. Our sickness, our diseases are the ones that devastate a nation: plague, drought, economic crisis…" He paused, slowly forming the words he wanted to say. "The very existence of our people runs through us; we feel their pain, their joy, their sadness and sorrow, their regret. We hear their voices; see the many wonderful things they see; dream their dreams and make them our own. Because we are all of them. All of them at once." He puts a hand on his chest. "If even one person clings to hope, we cannot fade." He smiles at her.

"This…this is ludicrous…" She can't believe the words are slipping from her lips. She shakes her head slowly. "This is…"

"You were born in a small town, in the heart of British Columbia," he whispers to her.

"Stop…"

"You grew up, surrounded by pain and anger. You felt alone, betrayed by everyone."

"Please, don't—"

"But you are beautiful, both in body and soul, and you love everything with such passion, it always comes back to you." He smiles at her. "The truck was my fault. And I cannot allow even one of my people to die because of my recklessness." He swallows. "I would never forgive myself."

She breaks down, hugging the boy with all her might. "Oh Canada…" she sobs.

He hugs her tight to him, not using his whole strength, because it was obvious he could snap her like a twig, but it's a strong grip, and she feels safe in it. They stand there, completely ignoring the world, just focusing on each other. His heartbeat is almost musical to her, and she feels lulled and sleepy just listening to it.

"The others…are they…?"

"Yes," he whispers to her. "America and Britain and France all came for me." He is happy, and she smiles despite herself.

"Matthew…no, Canada…will you…will I…?"

Matthew pats her head softly. "I am with you, no matter where you roam. As for us," he lifts her chin to look into her eyes. "You are special. There are few like you who can see past the veils, and perceive the truth behind what we really are." He chuckled. "I have no doubt…we will meet again."

He kisses her forehead then, and the pulse through his lips is like the beat of 30,000,000 hearts, beating in rhythmic time. The sensation overwhelms her, and she feels her world spin a little.

"I won't…forget…" she whispers as she slips into unconsciousness.

---

How she arrived back at her Great Aunt's place in Delta was beyond her. But as she sat up in bed, gripping the twisted covers in her hand, she couldn't help but feel it was too real to be a dream. The scents she had smelled lingered in her memory, strong and bold, not easily forgotten. She smiles even as she tears up, hugging her knees as she remembers the sweet smell of her country as he held her protectively. Even when things were bad, her country was strong. Unwavering, never faltering, always following the course that he thought was right.

She cried until she had nothing left to cry.

---

She sat under the pine trees near her home weeks later, taking in the heavy smell with a light, airy sigh. She had chosen this spot to practice her breathing techniques in order to relax, like her therapists had told her to, and she could feel it working. This was much better than any pill or psychiatric help they could give her.

She was what they called bipolar; completely and utterly at the mercy of violent mood swings and roller coaster-like frames of mind. Left untreated for too long, and she became unstable, even bordering on psychotic. She had near invisible scars from many attempts to turn that aggression on herself.

The healthcare system did what it could for her, but she was labelled clinically insane, and basically forced to become sedated to keep her 'normal'. But pills and the like made her tired, always tired. She had no ambition, no drive. Nothing made sense to her, and sometimes she would cry in frustration.

She hadn't bothered telling anyone about what happened in Vancouver. She would take that secret to her grave. Not only would she betray the trust her country had put on her, but it would probably mean a shwack more pills on top of what she already took, a thought that made her swallow in disgust.

But this was perfect. No doctors or psychiatrists hanging over her, no annoying white noise of a city slowly going insane. Just her and nature.

The wind caressed her cheek gently as she sat there, absorbing the stillness that was the grove of pine trees near her home, in the city she was born in, grew up in, loved even when she hated it, because she could never escape it.

She felt her trance slowly become sleep, and she didn't fight it, letting herself drift towards a slumber she hadn't had in months.

And then, softly, she heard a laugh. A familiar, hushed laugh, and her eyes flew open. But all she saw was the city around her, and the crows on her roof, cawing at her with rude curiosity.

But she smiled. Even if the world was going crazy, she at least knew she was sane. For now.

She leaned back against the tree, and contemplated pancakes for breakfast the next morning. With lots of maple syrup.