Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

extra - bedtime stories

The request was innocent enough. 

How could she deny him something so simple as sitting down to a home-cooked meal, especially when he looked on the verge of tears should she refuse? 

_________________________________

After the display with Canada at the World Meeting, Alfred noted that Valentina possesses a kind heart, and the fact has only made his fondness for the young girl grow. Any girl who notices, even goes so far as to be nice and helpful to his little brother is an instant "sidekick" in his eyes. 

But this was going too far.

"Vaaaaaaaal," he groans, slumping against the door frame. His palm meets his forehead with a profusely audible smack. "Why the hell'd ya eat Iggy's crap?"

She smiles thinly, nestled in the cavernous comforters of Ivan's bed (he still insists the guest should have the best accommodations). Her skin is sallow, pallid, save for the splotches of red on her cheeks, her forehead, though the feverish skin is partially hidden by a cold cloth. Sweat trickles down the sides of her face, pools in her palms; she'll conspicuously wipe them on the blanket at odd intervals, hoping the American won't see, conscious that he does.

Her eyes have lost their humorous twinkle, dulled by sickness and fatigue and the indisputable stomach pains that come along with downing a meal prepared by one Arthur Kirkland.

"I suppose... I should have listened..." Her words are punctuated by awkward breaks as she skims through her meager collection of English words; Alfred waits patiently for her to gather her thoughts and string together a sentence, a feat the guilty Brit would gawk at if he were here. Alfred's not well-known for his manners, after all.

He pulls a chair to her bedside and settles himself in it, squirming for a comfortable position. A book is spread open in her lap, the pages worn and yellowed with age and love; she thumbs through a few chapters, looking without absorbing anything. Her mind seems elsewhere, whether it be from her illness or Russia's absence.

The man left hours ago. He said nothing, left no note as to where he'd gone or when he would return. It was too early for his walk, and the worry has clearly been weighing on Valentina. She'd mentioned to Alfred that he looked almost... anxious when he passed by her door on the way down the stairs and out the front door. 

Anything hefty enough to make the Russian sweat didn't really give Alfred any warm and fuzzy feelings.

"So..." Alfred's lips curve into a smile as she lifts her head, takes a moment to tuck several loose strands of hair behind her ear. "Anything I can do to make ya feel better?"

She gives a vigorous shake of her head, beginning to prattle on about how she couldn't possibly ask something of him when he's been so helpful, teaching her English, satiating her hunger for company when Ivan is out and the Baltics busy; but she's cut short as a wave of dizziness overtakes her and she falls back into her mound of pillows, light-headed, her fever spiking. 

Alfred reaches over to readjust the damp cloth, brushes the slick strands of hair from her eyes. "Yeah, you're tooootally fine," he smirks, inviting a quick round of abashed flushing. "Dudette, I'm here to help, so let the hero do this thing! What d'ya want?"

She lapses into a brief bought of disquieted silence, her brows furrowed so thoroughly in concentration she begins to resemble Arthur after discovering Alfred had - yet again - attempted to shave off his eyebrows in the dead of night. Then, the tension dissipates, her face softens, and she says, "A story."

The request is so plain, so underwhelming, the American feels himself cringe, only checking himself at the last moment to keep from baffling Valentina. He releases a short breath from his nose, just shy of an exasperated snort. "A story, huh? You're kinda... simple, ain't ya, Val?"