Hi if your requests are open then how about a drabble where America is sick at a meeting and England is a good dad for once?
Aww...I like to give him a little more credit than that, but yeah xD. Sorry it took a little while, I got busy with rarepair week.
Relationship: England + America (+ France)
Author’s Note: CW vomiting. Also I projected a bit onto Alfred about my feelings about being sick. But yeah. Hope you enjoy!
Lastly. I headcanon Francis as nonbinary using he/they pronouns so I will be switching between them with each paragraph.
Something was wrong. Sure the meeting was still loud, with multiple fights breaking out, and very tired Ludwig losing his patience and called lunch early, but one thing was missing. Alfred had remained silent the entire two hours, not interjecting once with some wild scheme to solve whatever world issue they were discussing. He wasn’t even busily talking to those beside him. So when lunch was called and Alfred got up to go to the bathroom, Arthur decided to follow him and get to the bottom of it all.
When he entered the bathroom, he could hear Alfred heaving. Arthur cringed at the sound. Eventually, it ended, Alfred slinking to the floor with a groan.
With a sigh, Arthur knocked on the stall door. “You shouldn’t be here,” he chastised.
Alfred went to protest, but his stomach had other ideas.
“Let me in,” Arthur demanded.
“Alfred, we need to get you back to your hotel or something so you can rest.”
Alfred let out a strangled noise at that idea. “I-I don’t want to move,” he whispered.
Arthur let out a weary sigh. He couldn’t be annoyed when Alfred sounded so scared. Even after all these years, the poor boy was still terrified of being sick. Using his fingernail, he unlocked the door, finding Alfred slumped against the wall, sweaty and even paler than he was back in the conference room. With another sigh, Arthur headed over to the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and wet it. He ran the cool paper towel over Alfred’s burning skin, trying to get the younger nation’s fever down and clean him up a bit.
Alfred gave an approving hum, leaning into the coolness.
When Arthur deemed Alfred cleaner, he proposed that they start their trek up to Alfred’s room. Alfred still wasn’t keen on the idea.
“You can’t just stay on this grimy floor all day,” Arthur snapped, “Plus, a comfortable bed is just what you need right now.”
Alfred pouted, but he couldn’t deny that just collapsing into his bed and passing out sounded really good right now. “Okay,” he groaned.
With Arthur’s help and a plastic bag from the receptionist, Alfred safely got to his room without much issue. “You should get into something more comfortable,” Arthur suggested, sitting Alfred on the bed.
Alfred made a displeased noise. He didn’t feel like moving or doing anything at the moment less he disrupted his stomach again.
Arthur tsked. Alfred was acting like a child, but he’d let it slide–just this once. Being sick wasn’t fun, and Alfred specifically had always had some anxiety surrounding it. Arthur went over to the closet, and sure enough, there was Alfred’s suitcase. He pulled out some jogging pants and a t-shirt and tossed them over to Alfred. “Put these on,” Arthur ordered, “I’ll be right back.”
He headed into the bathroom, collecting a plastic cup and a washcloth. As he filled the cup with water and wet the cloth, he dialed Francis.
“Angleterre, where are you?” Francis cried when they picked up.
“In Al’s hotel room. Look, he’s sick, and I need you to pick up a few things for me.”
As Francis made a snide remark, Arthur heard Alfred heave again. Acting quickly, he rushed into the room, providing Alfred with the plastic bag just in time.
“Is everything alright,” Francis asked.
“Just peachy,” Arthur gritted, disposing of the bag. “Listen, I need you to get some things for Alfred. A bowl or bucket and maybe even some Gatorade while you’re at it. He’ll need the electrolytes.”
“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
In the meantime, Arthur gave Alfred another bag and instructed him to use it.
“Oh ma pauvre chérie,” Francis cooed. He felt Alfred’s forehead finding it warm. “My goodness, you’re burning up!"
“I’ll be fine Francis,” Alfred mumbled, cuddling further into his blankets.
“Okay, so I brought the bowl and some Gatorade as asked, as well as some medicine to hopefully get that fever down.”
“You know medicine barely works on us,” Arthur criticized.
“Well, every little bit helps,” Francis shot back.
“Thank you,” Alfred said, “Both of you.”
Any potential argument was stopped right there. Francis let out a sigh. “I’ll head back then,” they said, “And I’ll let Ludwig know what’s going on. Are you going to stay too Arthur?”
“Yeah. Just to make sure he’s okay.”
Francis gave the Brit a knowing grin. “You always were a mother hen,” he chuckled as he left, “I’ll swing by later with some dinner for you and to check in with Alfred.”
Arthur scoffed at the French nation’s comment. He didn’t have time to dwell on it now though. He set up the bowl on the nightstand and encouraged Alfred to take a sip of the Gatorade. The young nation was surprisingly obedient, too tired to argue.
“Just rest now,” Arthur said softly, grabbing the cloth he had wet a few minutes ago and placing it on Alfred’s forehead.
With Alfred tended to and already on his way to sleep, Arthur headed over to the nearby chair with a book out of his bag. Just as he began reading, he heard the bed creak.
“Thank you…” Alfred said softly.
“Don’t mention it. We can’t have you collapse from exhaustion or getting sick all over the place.”
Alfred grimaced at that image. “Sorry,” Arthur added, forgetting how even the idea of vomiting made Alfred uncomfortable. “And you’re welcome. Now please rest.”
Alfred sighed and flipped back over. Arthur thought that was the end of it when he heard the bed creak again. And again. And again. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched as Alfred tossed the comforter off before pulling it back over himself. He was restless, to say the least.
Unsure about what to do, Arthur just started humming. It was an old lullaby he had long forgotten the name of, but one he knew Dylan used to sing for him and that Arthur used to sing to Alfred when he was still under his care. Alfred must have recognized the tune as he seemed to settle slightly.
When Arthur finally looked over at him again, Alfred was fast asleep, cuddled up with a pillow. Arthur smiled softly, getting up and leaning down to adjust the cloth on Alfred’s head. He placed a light kiss on Alfred’s forehead. “Sleep well poppet," he whispered before returning to his book.
