America Angst, Nightmares

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"America?"

The little kid stared too hard at America. Those eyes perfect reflections of his father's.

"Yes West?"

"Where do we go when we die?"

Such an innocent question, from one who had seen so much. His eyes staring, it unnerved America. The prolonged eye contact.

"Oh well, well we go somewhere nice, where all the people we love are." America squatted down and pet West Germany's head with a smile.

"Wh-why do I miss the people who hurt me?"

America felt himself stiffen. Then he spoke words that weren't his.

"That's because you're a dummy, okay?" The words came out soft, and suddenly America was in the spot Germany was, staring up at Britain.

"You're just, a dumb little- a stupid little dumb dumb who doesn't know anything."

America felt tears roll down his face, and he wiped them from his eyes, looking down to see blood where the tears were, and the screaming, oh God not the screams again.

And he was awake. His breathes claimed the air as his, slowly sitting up and running a hand through his hair. Wet. But it wasn't blood, just sweat.

He was okay.

The bed and floors creaked under him, and he opened the door, staring at Germany's little sleeping body.

At least he wasn't having nightmares. At least he was okay.

America smiled and closed the door, walking back to his room, settling down, and letting sleep reclaim him.

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