43This is a sequel to my story Stockholm Syndrome, which you most likely need to read for this to make any sense.
Canada was curled up on the arm chair in Germany's living room, nursing a cup of cocoa someone had placed in his hands. One of his host's dogs lay at his feet, and the blonde occasionally stretched a foot out from the hockey jersey that enveloped him down to gently rub the creature's back. The jersey he wore belonged to America—for some reason, perhaps thinking it would comfort him in some way, when America was grabbing spare clothes to lend his brother the only shirts he grabbed where hockey jerseys (America felt obligated to own a jersey for every sports team in his country, so he had plenty to spare). The already oversized shirts made the scrawny Canadian look like a child playing dress up, which fit right into the theme of the others treating him like a child, to be coddled and be out of the way as the 'adults' dealt with issues involving a certain mad nation.
Not that he could blame them, really. He said nothing of his time with Russia, or much else for that matter. The only information garnered from the blonde was from his physical condition and the situation he had been found in.
The first morning Canada had awoke to find himself alone in a cold bed, the sound of increasingly agitated voices rising up from the floor below. When he found the willpower to get up and drift to the source of the voices, he experienced what now was a regular routine for when he entered a room. First, everyone would stop talking, no matter how loud they had been before (usually it was America or Prussia who would have to stop mid-shout, Germany usually just refereed); then someone (once again usually his brother or Prussia) would go up to him and, using an unnervingly gentle tone, would ask how he was, if he wanted anything, or-if it were morning and a consensus has been reached, what the plan for the day was. That first day they went to the hospital.
His brother tried to speak soothing words on one half of a paper screen as he stood shivering and naked on the other. The nurses were professionally pleasant as they photographed and documented his various little cuts and bruises. One's face only fell out of a neutral grimness when she examined the burn scar that marked the inside of most of his forearm and some of his hand.
"I fell against the stove," he mumbled in explanation, the woman's frown making him unsure if she believed him.
On America's insistence he was given something, a shot that made his head and body feel heavy before the doctor came to look at him. The only thing that stood clear in Canada's clouded mind was his brother's face just outside the door as he spoke to the doctor when they thought he was asleep. The great nation's lips were pressed into a thin line and his jaw was tight as the man went on about 'signs of repeated sexual trauma' and 'DNA samples.' He thought it sounded like one of Al's silly crime shows, though America didn't seem to find it silly at all.
Before they left Canada was finally allowed to take a shower. It was odd doing so in such a place, but when the nurse offered he felt compelled to accept. At least it kept his sibling's worried gaze off him for a little bit. For the most part he simply stood there, feeling the water rinse over him and wash away the last bits of Russia left on his skin-the country and the person.
And then he was back in Germany's house in his brother's jersey, sitting silently as his three rescuers argued in the next room. Occasionally he would be asked questions, oh-so-gently, but if they pertained to Russia or needed an answer of more than one syllable they were fruitless. After a few days they finally seemed to realize they weren't going to get any verbal confirmation of what had happened anytime soon, but it wasn't like it was necessary. What had happened was obvious. If this were a human matter there was no doubt Russia would have been convicted, but they weren't human. Nation personifications had the ultimate diplomatic immunity, but that didn't stop America from seeking some sort of justice for his twin.
"We did it!" was the shout that startled Canada out if his dozing state on the armchair as the front door slammed open. America, grinning the idiotic grin that had been absent from his face for a few weeks now, tore excitedly through the house until he found his twin, the two German brothers not far behind.
"Mattie!" America cried, kneeling down before his confused sibling. He had forgotten for a moment to put on that calm voice that apparently everyone had agreed to use when speaking to Canada, but it was making its way back as he continued, "We've dealt with that bastard, Mattie!"
The blank stare he received didn't deter America's ear to ear grin as Germany tried to offer an explanation. "As you know, nations cannot go to jail-"
"But obviously Russia couldn't go unpunished!" America cut in, "He couldn't just walk around freely after what he's done! So we took your hospital records to Russia's boss, hell, we had Russia's DNA and everything, there was no way he could deny it. There was no way I'd let him deny it, Mattie!" Suddenly the American threw his arms around his brother, hugging him tightly. "The bastard can't go to jail, but he won't be free." Canada gazed at his twin, still confused and more than a little uncomfortable in America's crushing embrace.
"We basically forced his boss to put him under house arrest," Prussia explained with a proud little smirk, "Of course he still has to come to meetings, but otherwise he can't leave his home. He'll be heavily guarded and hopefully miserable."
"Oh," was the only response Canada could give. Russia was under lock and key then. Good. Yes, this was something he should be happy about. His kidnapper, his rapist, was as imprisoned as a nation could be. He should be happy. He nodded as if to confirm this, letting he brother hug him a bit more before starting to squirm.
He finally spoke up when he felt what must have been tears begin to soak through his shirt. "I...May I go lay down...?" he asked, voice so soft America probably wouldn't have heard it if he had not been so close. The misty eyed blonde released him, still smiling.
"Of course, Mattie. Go ahead," a strong hand squeezed Canada's boney one for a split second. "Rest up, okay? We'll be going home soon." He nodded, beating a hasty retreat upstairs as Prussia clapped his hand around America's shoulder.
"About that..."
Once again agitated voices carried up to the guest room as Canada curled up on the bed. From what he could make out America was vehemently denying something, though what he couldn't tell. The blonde groaned softly and pulled a pillow over his head until the noise had dropped off some.
After a while he found himself staring at the ceiling, half conscious, the voices below now quiet. "So this is it, then," he said. America and the others had dealt with Russia, and now it seemed the case was closed. The end. His ordeal over the past few months was over, he could go home and get back to his life. He should be happy, or relieved, or something. He should have been the one crying tears of joy, not America.
But he didn't feel like crying. Not for joy or sorrow or pain or even boredom. Sunken violet eyes closed against the white above, shutting out the world around him. He didn't feel anything but tired.
Ahh, finally got the first chapter done! The beginning had been sitting around forever until I finally got the bulk of it done in a fit of insomnia. I hope it's satisfactory. This story will be more emotional and psychologically focused, which I'm actually not that used to doing…haha, ahh what have I gotten myself into…
This will probably update pretty slowly, since I have school to worry about, but I wanted to get it started since I know people have been waiting and I want to get it done before going off onto other fics (I'll have to do one to redeem Russia, since I made him such a rapetruck in Stockholm Syndrome).
Anyways, let me know what you think so far.
