The Storm [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter Two:

(A/N ~ Sorry if I change from past to present POV, I'll try not to.)

America walked alongside the small boy as he hugged his bunny and empty water bottle to his chest. America also noted he was thinner than he originally thought, and expected to have to coax him to eat as well.

At least he drank and was already starting to look much better. His skin wasn't as clammy, and his legs seemed to have loosened a little from the walk. But he did look tired now that he had something in his stomach, he must feel exhausted.

America followed the child back to his spot in the corner of the bunker. He sat slowly and lied down, hugging his stuffed animal close to him. His round eyes closing as he drifted to sleep.

Satisfied, America made his way over to his own bed and laid down himself after removing his boots. The thin mattress wasn't exactly comfortable, but at least he had a bunk. That boy had to sleep on the floor—

He suddenly sat upright. Why was he so stupid? He turned his head and saw the child shivering against the cold, so far away from the heat of the fireplace. America stood and approached him again, walking as quietly as possible.

Many people had turned out their personal battery run lamps. The lamps were small and provided very little light and no warmth at all, but they allowed people to see in the darkness of the bunker until they had to replace the batteries.

Some who were still awake heard America's loud steps even though he tried to conceal them. Before they could question, him he held his finger to his lips and motioned around the amount of sleeping people. They looked annoyed but laid back down.

Breathing a sigh of relief, America finally reached the boy. He gently placed his hand on the child's shoulder and he sat bolt upright. Was he having a nightmare? America thought.

"Hey, kiddo. You okay?" He asked quietly, the boy shook his head. It dawned on America that he hasn't spoken at all.

"You still hungry, little guy?" America asked quietly, a small smile dancing across his face. The boy shrugged. "I'm gonna take that as a 'yes'," America joked and lifted the boy up. He was surprisingly light as America placed the boy back on his feet, feet that were protected by threadbare red sneakers.

America again held his hand and guided him to the food stalls. The boy said nothing but still clung to his bunny around its thin neck, making the old toy's head look just about ready to fall off.

America tried not to laugh as he reached the stall. Crates of canned food, water, and other nonperishables littered around the makeshift shop. America could see in the very back corner where the stall owner kept his bed.

"Told you already, Alfred, no midnight snacks," the man said gruffly. The boy hid behind America's leg, his small fingers curling into the fabric of his pants.

America patted his head and turned back to the man. "Not for me, I told you, the kid hasn't been eating." The man studied him.

"He's not your kid, why do you care?" He asked, and America felt his anger flare up. He looked back down at the boy; he was staring at the floor, his forehead against America's hip, hiding his round face.

America evenly turned his gaze back to the man. "Does it matter? Someone's not getting their meals, I have to help them," he explained simply. He felt the bright blue eyes looking up at him, then the boy snuggled his face back into America's side.

The man behind the stall stared at him for a moment, shrugged, then pulled out a can of carrots and a glass of water. He winked when America was about to ask about the water, then told him not to eat it. America smiled and thanked him then took the goods.

He guessed it was close to midnight or later because everyone looked sluggish and half the room was fast asleep. America followed the little form in front of him, still tightly gripping to his hand, and found his spot by the wall. The boy sat down, then pulled his old denim jack close to him, hugging his bunny in one arm and nibbling out of the can of carrots America opened in the other.

He shivered a little, but he looked blissful as he chewed the baby carrots. America was crouching in front of him ruffling his snowy hair. He thought the boy was the most pitiful little thing in the bunker; he was small, thin, cold, and hungry. The more he looked at him, the more he felt drawn to him. Maybe it was the bond that drew a country to its people, but all America knew was that he had to help the little orphan no matter what.

But there was one question that he should have asked him by now. He probably should have asked it first, it was so simple.

"Hey, kiddo?" the boy paused his chewing and looked at America. "Can you tell me your name?"

It took him a while; he swallowed, took a gulp of the water, and worked his jaw like he was trying to formulate words. Finally, a noise escaped him. "What was that?" America asked and leaned closer.

"Cassius. I'm Cass," he said simply. His voice was as small as his body but high and broken like he hadn't used it in a while.

However, America only smiled and held out his hand. "Hi Cass, I'm Alfred F. Jones," he introduced himself. Cassius eyed his hand for a moment, then extended his own and shook.

XXXXX

After their little introduction, Cass looked better. He wasn't as shy around America like he had broken some invisible barrier just by saying their names. America even thought he saw a small grin, the ghost of a smile form on his thin lips.

America went back to his bunk but quickly returned with a blanket with a bald eagle on it, which Cass thought was weird until the older man handed it to him.

"You can use it like a sleeping bag, lay it out like this," He laid the blanket out in a square then told Cass to lie down in the middle of it. When the child complied, America wrapped him up in the blanket like a burrito.

Cass looked around, that shy grin once again alight on his face. America smiled as well and was about to stand up to go get himself tucked in when he saw Cass' face turn to panic. He thrashed around the makeshift sleeping bag, searching in the folds of the cotton fabric.

"Cass, what's wrong?" America asked as he stooped down, worried. He thought he'd fixed the kid but only broke him more.

"Khione!" Cass whimpered, desperately searching for something. What did he say? Key-Own-Knee? The heck does that mean?

But Cass continued to search, disturbing people's sleep. Young children awoke crying and whimpering from their disturbed rest, and their parents shot dirty looks at America. "Cassius, what are you looking for?" America asked, feeling completely helpless.

"My bunny. . ." Cass whispered, his cheeks flushing red. America sighed and ruffled the boy's hair. "Hold on a sec kiddo."

America searched the perimeter of the bunker, going back to the food stall (being scolded by the stall keeper again) and retraced his and Cass' steps back to his corner. Finally, he found the old rabbit and picked it up by one of it's long milky brown ears.

Cass ran up to him, snatched the bunny and hugged it close to his chest. At any moment, America thought Cass would squeeze the stuffing out of it, but he never did.

"Come now, you have your. . .whatever you called it. It's bedtime," America whispered to the child, not wanting any more glares shot at them. Cass nodded, still holding his bunny, and together they walked back to the corner and set up Cass' burrito-blanket.

"Goodnight, Cass," America whispered, giving the big a final pat on his head.

"Alfred?"

"Hm?"

"Kiss Khione goodnight please. . ." It was a small request, some might even say stupid, but America smiled and obliged.

"Sleep now," He told the boy, and he nodded, finally dozing into sleep.