I am a terrible person. Seriously. I should be flogged, I know it.

B-But here's the newest chapter! So plz to be no flog? :D /shot

Sad lack of plot in this chapter, but lots of shippy and kinda angsty things happening. So there's that.

Warnings: swearing, M/M relationships (can be taken as Gen if you stand on your head and squint real hard), and some angst.

Disclaimer: PPFFFFFFFFFF-AHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh wait, you were serious? Oh. Well. Uh. Not mine. :I

Enjoy this incredibly late chapter!

"It makes no sense! None at all!" Mary had finally come out of her self-imposed stupor raring mad and ready to fight. Because Mary hated not knowing things, but she hated not understanding things even more. And she didn't understand this, not one bit. Because there was nothing to understand. What she had just seen, what they had all just seen was. Not. Possible. It just wasn't, end of story. No man could take four rounds of buckshot to the chest at close range and live to tell the tale. They. Just. Couldn't. Stan sighs and runs his hand across his head, an unconscious habit that Mary and Marshall had long ago decided must be a throw-back to the days when he had hair.

"I know it doesn't make sense Inspector Shannon. We all know that, but the fact of the matter is, it's what happened. It's even in the official report, all typed out nice in black and white and in triplicate: Alfred F. Jones, twenty-one years old from Washington D.C stopped an attempted robbery by several members of the notorious Mala Noches gang."

"But how Stan? Huh? Tell me that! Show me where they explain that all nice and typed up in triplicate, because believe you me, I am dying to know how the bigwigs explained that one!"

"Well that's the thing. They didn't explain it. Or, more like, the explanation they gave isn't the whole truth. It tells how Mr. Jones entered the store, and that he managed to subdue four armed men, conveniently leaving out how exactly it was he managed this, then called 911 to inform them of what happened and to ask for an ambulance to be sent for our would-be burglars as well as our unfortunate cashier there. All of this is documented along with witness testimony, the only one of credibility being the one given by Alfred Jones at the scene; but the whole thing is so glossed-over and fuzzy on the details it's like they wrote it with rose-colored glasses on."

"And, what, the gang-members just happened to all contract a mysterious case of amnesia at the same goddamn time?"

"Mary, he put two gang-members into comas from head-trauma, one of which hasn't even come out it yet, and the doctors don't think he ever will. The other two started babbling about super-powers, what the hell do you think the cops thought?"

"What about our fifth gang-banger? You only mentioned four." Marshall, ever the voice of reason and focusing on the bigger picture and all that jazz.

"One of them got away, escaped out the back door while the kid called 911."

"What? You're telling me one of those thugs actually got away? He's a security risk! Why didn't you tell us this?"

"It was all very hush-hush, I only found out myself this morning. Of course I read them the riot act about not informing the people who are supposed to be protecting the kid of every detail that may be deemed relevant, but you know the higher ups, couldn't give a rat's-Mary, where are you going?"

She didn't even pause in the act of pulling on her jacket, just answered over her shoulder as she walked out the door. "Goin' fishin'."

"Matt? Hey, Mattie, you still here?" Alfred tossed his bomber-jacket over the back of a chair near the front door as he entered, not even breaking stride to see if it actually met its intended target. It did, but that's not the point. He continued ignoring the man behind him as completely as he had all the way back to the safe-house. This suited Ivan just fine. It was a welcome break from the steady stream of chatter the American could usually keep up for hours if you didn't interrupt him. It was also a warning sign, one he'd come to recognize over those tense years when they could barely tolerate one another, so he kept in mind to tread lightly. Despite his unwavering desire to rile up the younger man, his instincts were telling him to back off, and he decided to listen to them. For now.

America found what he was looking for in the kitchen, after he spent a good ten minutes wandering around trying to remember what exactly it was he was trying to find. His brother had left a note taped politely to the fridge, unobtrusive and plain, just like the nation whom had written it.

Alfred, now that I know you're okay, I've decided to head home. Can't afford to be away to long, I'm sure you understand. And try to call England if you get the chance; I've tried but he's forgotten my number again so he isn't answering. Try to stay out of trouble, for my sake if not your own. Matthew.

America let his head clunk against the cool metal of the appliance, muttering a curse under his breath. Great, now he was alone with that stupid, irritating, evil, conniving-

"What was that you were saying Amerika? I couldn't understand you, what with your face all squished against the refrigerator like that, but I do so like to be kept in the loop. You never know, one of these days you may actually say something half-way intelligent and I don't want to be one to such a rare event. It would be like missing a meteor shower and knowing you won't see another one for several hundred years, if ever."

The taller nation's highly-amused words came from several feet behind him rather than right next to his ear as he'd almost come to expect. As it was, it probably the only thing that kept his face intact since America was starting to feel particularly homicidal. His headache had come back to pound in his ears again, having gone away for a few hours but now returned full-force; and it felt like it had brought friends. Friends that were currently dancing a conga on his cerebral cortex. He thumped his head softly against the cold surface again, grateful for the soothing effect of the cold on his over-heated forehead. Funny, since it was probably the only time in his memory that the cold had actually done something good for him. Heaving out a sigh that left him feeling hollowed out and tired and so very old, he turned his head just slightly so he could address the other nation, though not enough to remove his head from the comforting frigidity of the metal.

"What do you want Russia? Why are you here, really? I know it's not just to 'check up on me' or whatever your excuse was earlier. So let's just get it over with now, I'm too tired to deal with this right now."

"I am confused why you keep asking me that question. I have given you an answer, the same one actually, several times. I wonder why you think me answer should change when you ask it again." It sounded as if he'd moved closer, though America didn't bother to waste the energy required to turn his head and check.

"Russia. You hate me, remember? I may not know why, and as of right this very second I don't much care, but the truth still stands. You can't stand me, and I find your presence taxing. So what. do. you. want?" His grammar always got better when he was tired or close to his breaking point. Strange trait, that.

"And what makes you think you actually want to hear the answer, hm?" Yep, definitely closer.

America's fist clenched at his sides but he didn't move, breathing steadily through his nose, forcing himself to be calm. Punching Russia in the face was not a good idea on so many levels, no matter what his brain was telling him. Although he had a feeling that his options would soon be coming down to either punching Ivan's face in or busting out crying. He was just so tired and achey and so old but so young and he didn't have any idea how to handle this and he it wasn't like he had anybody to turn to for help and it was just so hard all by himself and he really just wanted to go to sleep for forever and let the whole world work out their own damn problems their own damn selves but he couldn't do that cause he was the United States of America and he was supposed to be able to handle everything life through at him with a smile and a laugh but he just couldn't some times and why couldn't people just leave him alone?

"Amerika?" He was almost directly behind him now and Alfred had the feeling he'd been standing there for a while and he just hadn't noticed but he didn't care and he was just so fucking tired he could fall asleep all crumpled over like this and-

Long arms wrapped around his shoulders and gently turned him around and he let them because there really wasn't anything else he could do at this point. Those same careful hands lifted his chin up and Alfred knew Russia was still there, was standing close enough that he could feel him breathe but it was hard to see cause his vision was swimming, whether with pain or unshed tears or both he wasn't sure. Probably both. Russia let go of his chin in favor of winding his cold arms around the shorter man's waist and pulling him into a hug, still so careful with him like he thought he'd break into a thousand pieces if he handled him too roughly and fuck now he was crying and he didn't have the strength to break free. So instead he just let himself be held, bunching his fists into the front of Ivan's borrowed sweater and bowing his head to bury it in his collar bone and crying for the first time in forever because it was just too much sometimes and no one had ever really cared before and even though he knew Ivan didn't really care either and this was probably just another one of his twisted games but right then it felt like he really did care, maybe just a little and so Alfred held tight and just cried and cried and cried.

And Ivan let him do it, abandoning words in favor of resting his chin on top of the blonde's head and just holding still because it was what he was there for after all. To be there for his friend, even if that friend has convinced himself they no longer were.

Oh I am just so mean to Alfred aren't I? I don't mean to be! I swear! There was supposed to be lots of plot-moving-forwardness in this chapter, but I dunno, America just got all upset and angsty and I just HAD to have somebody there to comfort him, I mean c'mon, I'm not completely heart-less!

I know I promised faster updates last time, so I won't promise that again for fear of breaking that promise again. But did you know that how many reviews I get does actually effect the speed at which I put out chapters? Promise. (:

Merry incredibly belated Christmas everyone! And happy last day of Hannukah to any Jewish readers I may have out there!

(And look Ma, no cliff-hangers! :D)