Countryhumans Oneshots

One Good Leg

Requested by an Anonymous Person on my oneshot request document. I will leave the link in the comments, remind me if I forget.

America hated getting injured in battle, especially as a nation. Maybe it was leftover ideals from his father, but the action had always felt shameful like he had failed in his duties. It made him feel like he had not lived up to the great expectations his people had for him.

This one was worse than most. It was Okinawa. Germany had surrendered and died, and America was getting so close to finally defeating Japan and finishing her off. Like how he had been part of the force to finally defeat Germany, America wanted to be part of the attack force working to defeat Japan.

But instead of defeating Japan, he got shot in the leg and was ordered off the battlefield. He didn't even get shot on the battlefield, but by some sniper that he didn't see coming.

America felt ashamed. What was worse was who saved him.

"How on earth is that man still alive? I thought...we watched him die, right?" Rebecca asked, sounding slightly panicked.

"No, he ran off before he died. We never actually saw him die, just dissolved his government," Caleb answered.

"Shoulda locked him up in chains and ensured he died," James said, voice uncharacteristically venomous.

America sighed at the argument happening in his head. He was so tired, a sign that the morphine was doing its job, but he wished he was a little more clear-headed so he could focus more on the conversation between his closest friends and family.

"But the part I don't get is why the hell he saved us! There was no one else around; we could have died from infection or exposure, and he got us to a hospital. Why?" Rebecca asked.

"I don't know, but I don't like it. Americ—oh, he's out of it, huh?" James said. America rolled his tired eyes.

"M'fine James. Just tired, and that's not anything new for me." America said without thinking, before feeling fear flood through him. He forgot to check if anyone was around. America blearily lifted his head before lowering it back down to the pillow as he noticed no one else was there.

"Maybe try sleeping. It might help your injury," James suggested, his voice gentle. America groaned.

"I don't want to sleep. I want to get back there and help," he protested.

"You were shot in the leg, Mae. You ain't going nowhere for a long time." Caleb said. America sighed, letting his heavy eyes slide close. He wasn't asleep, and he was still the one in charge, but his mind drifted from worries about the liberation of the Philippines and Kentucky's health to the politics of rebuilding Europe.

And as much as he tried to keep from thinking about it, the memories of the battle and his injury came surging back as America reviewed the events in his mind and tried to think of how he could do better...and why he was saved.

The battle had been bloody, like all the island battles, and America was not so foolish to think he was invincible, especially with a giant red, white, and blue target on his face.

He had only left to go to the bathroom, then...

America had just finished using the bathroom and was making his way back to the camp when a gunshot rang out. Pain exploded in his leg, and America collapsed, injured leg unable to hold his weight anymore. He was sobbing from the pain as blood poured from his leg.

James and Rebecca were yelling as America looked for a sniper and looked for the soldier who had shot him. Was it a normal soldier? Was it Japan herself, come to kill him?

But no one came, and now more shots were fired.

James was yelling at him, yelling for him to patch up the injury, but some part of America lay there dazed until he felt his arms moving without his command and knew that James had gotten tired of yelling and had moved on to actually doing something.

But there wasn't much they could do.

"Do you think we'll bleed out?" America whispered. He wasn't sure who was in control anymore, the lines between him and James blurring. James hummed as he continued trying his best to stop the bleeding. They had only meant to use the bathroom and had not brought medical supplies.

They needed a medic–fast.

"MEDIC!" America yelled at the top of his lungs, feeling James startle at the unexpected shout.

"Jesus! Warning next time, Maverick!" he exclaimed.

"HELP! I'VE BEEN SHOT!" America yelled, throwing aside all sense of pride. He didn't know if he had been shot by a countryperson or not, and he was not going to run the risk of dying out here, so close to the end of the war, before he even got to see his children again, see Kentucky again.

He could hear Rebecca trying to comfort Unorganized Territory, and America was about to open his mouth to say something to comfort her when he heard footsteps. He turned his head to see another American soldier there—one that looked vaguely familiar.

America's eyebrows scrunched up in confusion as he tried to remember where he had seen the soldier before. The face was basic and forgettable, although slightly feminine, and he had brown eyes and dark brown hair. Any standard American could look like him.

"I need help getting back to camp. I can't walk," America told the soldier, who was staring at him and hadn't moved. Was he just shocked by the fact that he had found the United States injured? The soldier then broke out of whatever trance he was in and nodded, a strange smile on his face.

"Never thought I'd see the day you came to me asking for help," he said. The voice wasn't familiar, and the accent was Southern, although America couldn't place from where. He blamed the throbbing, pulsing pain in his leg.

"Yeah, it's uncommon to see your nation ask for help. Now I need to get a medic, so help me out here," America snapped, patience growing thin.

"I wouldn't say that's the reason why, Union," the soldier said, causing America's head to snap up as he looked back at the soldier—

America shoved the memory aside. He didn't want to think about that. It brought back far too many memories of that war that he had been trying to push aside.

"Go to sleep, America. We can deal with that tomorrow," James whispered.

"I don't wanna deal with it at all," America complained, feeling far too much like a little kid again. He just wanted things to be over, for everyone to be okay.

Why couldn't he have that?

"I'll take care of it, America. Just get some rest. You deserve it," James reassured. America nodded, giving in to the drugs and slipping away into unconsciousness.