Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 5: A Sequence Of Stupid Choices

Trigger warning: schizophrenia and panic attacks, mentions of alcoholism

America slept through most of the flight. He was exhausted and needed the sleep, especially considering the hellfire he was returning to. The first class seats were comfy, but not nearly as nice as Soviet's bed had been.

When he woke up in Soviet's bed, he'd panicked. Oh hell no, I did not sleep with him. No no no no. Then he realized two things: one, he was alone and dressed, so he had not slept with the commie; and two, he was still wearing Soviet's jacket. He let himself enjoy it, snuggling into the coat's warmth. But only for a moment. He might've had some feelings towards Soviet, but he didn't have time to bask in them.

He could still hear Soviet's voice, soft in the firelight. 'What are you going to do about it?' God, America had considered it. He'd honest-to -god considered kissing him. He'd stared at Soviet's soft-looking lips, heart pounding in his chest. His heart seemed to scream, just do it! Just kiss the man! But he chickened out, as he often did. He had no time for romance, especially not with his former enemy. Not when it had ended so badly last time.

He couldn't seem to make up his mind. He hated Soviet, Soviet had left him in his darkest hour. But if he hated him, why did his heart jump in his chest at the mere thought of him?

As the plane started its descent, America jolted out of his reviere. He was so, so tired. It felt like his eyelids were weighted. The attendants spoke in Russian over the intercom, something along the lines of "we will be touching down in Washington DC in 20 minutes".

He groaned, checking his phone. Airplane WiFi was garbage, but even then he still had several Twitter notifications and 20 emails. He half heartedly read through the emails. They were nothing but riot, riot, riot. His heart sank. Somehow, he had the terrifying feeling that he'd hear nothing but protests for a month.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat. His medication was wearing off, meaning the voices would be back. The Olanzapine didn't completely shut the voices up, but it silenced them to a dull whisper. Now, he could hear them loud and clear. They weren't screaming. Yet.

"Don't get me wrong, protests are a right; but rioting and looting is not. You're not following quarantine either!" Conservative, a manly voice with a southern drawl, snapped.

"Coming from the man who protested quarantine! This is a real issue!" Liberal, a reedy feminine voice barked back. This back and forth debate continued for several minutes before America decided to drown it out with music. It worked, to an extent. It got his mind off the arguments and the fact that he was reliving the 1967 Detroit riots on a national scale.

An attendant came by and asked in accented English, "Please put your tray table up."

America obliged, only half hearing her over his music. He'd slept through most of a 14 hour flight and he was still exhausted. The jet lag would be hell.

Once they landed, America was one of the first off the plane. Minnesota and DC were waiting for him, both women looking equally stressed. Minnesota showed it though her outfit- sweats and a hoodie (in July!), and in the dark circles under her eyes. DC, however, looked impeccable as usual, dressed in a pristine pantsuit and hair pulled into a tight bun. Her stress showed in the way she swayed back and forth just slightly, in the tense set of her shoulders.

God, this had to be so rough on his daughters. They were dealing with crisis after crisis, and what was he doing? Flirting with a communist in the wilds of Siberia. Fool, you deserve all of this.

Ignoring his intrusive thoughts, he hugged his two girls. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"It's okay," DC said. "You couldn't have known."