A Business Trip (England, Russia) - Pt 2
Title: A Business Trip
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Russia being a creeper
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Part 1
The first hour of the trip was tense and silent. England had taken the handgun out of its place in his bag, and was methodically loading, unloading, loading, unloading, trying not to think about what was coming. Russia's smile didn't waver. “You will break it,” he finally said.
England shook his head. “Don't be a fool. Besides, I can't imagine you didn't bring a spare.” He didn't look at Russia's face, but he knew that if he had, he would have seen teeth in the smile.
Russia began to hum vaguely; the tune was familiar. England was so distracted, it took him nearly ten minutes to recognize it. Yankee Doodle.
He shot the other man a venomous look. “Not necessary, Ivan.”
The man smiled wider-- and didn't desist.
A few moments later, his nerves wound to the breaking point, he snapped. “Russia, I swear to God, if you do not stop this instant, I will blow your brains out and devil take the consequences.”
The humming stopped. “Oh?” he said, looking genuinely interested. “You will shoot me with that little gun?”
England stood up suddenly, taking a two-handed shooting stance. “Try me,” he growled.
Russia stood, slowly, hands in the air, and walked over to him-- close. Too close. “Try you?” he asked.
England grabbed the man by the hair, shoving his gun under his chin. “Your innuendo is not appreciated, Ivan. You had your chance.”
The man's eyes were dreamy-- truly, truly insane by now, England thought, with a shudder, even if he hadn't been before he'd lost all that territory in the south. “When I had my chance,” he said, voice nearly singsong, “you were not holding something nearly so nice.”
England shook his head, looking at the gun in his hand, then back at Russia. “You are one sick man, you know that?”
The man didn't answer.
“Fine,” he said, and threw him across the plane, careful to aim away from the seats. The thud he made against the curved wall was immensely satisfying, never mind that Russia had lost about thirty percent of his body weight in the past few years. The man got to his knees, and England, as disgusted with himself as he was with Russia, hit him about the side of the head with the barrel of the gun. The safety was on. There was only so much homicide one could take.
Russia's head was bleeding; he hadn't meant to hit that hard, but he found he wasn't sorry. The man was looking up at him with dilated eyes, breathing short. Unfocused anger took him over again, and he kicked him, hard, in the ribs. Russia just laughed, and England felt a chill. “Your little shoes will do nothing to me, not after China's boots.”
“Fine,” he said, clipped, and took another swing at him with the gun.
This time, Russia caught it. “Not fast enough,” he sang.
In the time it took Russia to draw a breath, England was kneeling in front of him, blade at his throat. Russia gave a breathless laugh. “You are as fast as you were,” he whispered. England shook his head, and wrenched his gun hand out of Russia's grasp.
“You clearly are not.”
Russia's smile widened, and England couldn't help an unsettled feeling. “Are you going to hit me some more?” Russia asked, in his best little-kid voice. England shuddered.
“You want me to knock your teeth out?”
England couldn't quite look away from the other man's eyes, as he whispered, “I want you to try.”
“Then you're shit out of luck,” said England, folding the knife up, and putting his gun down. “I don't want to play this game with you.”
“You don't want to play this game with me...” Russia repeated, forlornly. “It is a nice game, England. It will make you feel very nice. And it is a long, long flight.” England watched him, worried, as he shimmied out of his coat and scarf, and held his arms above his head, wrists crossed. England knew what that pose said. The man rolled his hips forward, and England started at the incongruity of the gesture-- it was something he would have expected to see from Francis, or even Spain. “You can do anything you want to me,” Russia whispered.
England felt goosebumps break out on his arms. “Why?” he asked.
Russia just smiled.
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Russia being a creeper
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Part 1
The first hour of the trip was tense and silent. England had taken the handgun out of its place in his bag, and was methodically loading, unloading, loading, unloading, trying not to think about what was coming. Russia's smile didn't waver. “You will break it,” he finally said.
England shook his head. “Don't be a fool. Besides, I can't imagine you didn't bring a spare.” He didn't look at Russia's face, but he knew that if he had, he would have seen teeth in the smile.
Russia began to hum vaguely; the tune was familiar. England was so distracted, it took him nearly ten minutes to recognize it. Yankee Doodle.
He shot the other man a venomous look. “Not necessary, Ivan.”
The man smiled wider-- and didn't desist.
A few moments later, his nerves wound to the breaking point, he snapped. “Russia, I swear to God, if you do not stop this instant, I will blow your brains out and devil take the consequences.”
The humming stopped. “Oh?” he said, looking genuinely interested. “You will shoot me with that little gun?”
England stood up suddenly, taking a two-handed shooting stance. “Try me,” he growled.
Russia stood, slowly, hands in the air, and walked over to him-- close. Too close. “Try you?” he asked.
England grabbed the man by the hair, shoving his gun under his chin. “Your innuendo is not appreciated, Ivan. You had your chance.”
The man's eyes were dreamy-- truly, truly insane by now, England thought, with a shudder, even if he hadn't been before he'd lost all that territory in the south. “When I had my chance,” he said, voice nearly singsong, “you were not holding something nearly so nice.”
England shook his head, looking at the gun in his hand, then back at Russia. “You are one sick man, you know that?”
The man didn't answer.
“Fine,” he said, and threw him across the plane, careful to aim away from the seats. The thud he made against the curved wall was immensely satisfying, never mind that Russia had lost about thirty percent of his body weight in the past few years. The man got to his knees, and England, as disgusted with himself as he was with Russia, hit him about the side of the head with the barrel of the gun. The safety was on. There was only so much homicide one could take.
Russia's head was bleeding; he hadn't meant to hit that hard, but he found he wasn't sorry. The man was looking up at him with dilated eyes, breathing short. Unfocused anger took him over again, and he kicked him, hard, in the ribs. Russia just laughed, and England felt a chill. “Your little shoes will do nothing to me, not after China's boots.”
“Fine,” he said, clipped, and took another swing at him with the gun.
This time, Russia caught it. “Not fast enough,” he sang.
In the time it took Russia to draw a breath, England was kneeling in front of him, blade at his throat. Russia gave a breathless laugh. “You are as fast as you were,” he whispered. England shook his head, and wrenched his gun hand out of Russia's grasp.
“You clearly are not.”
Russia's smile widened, and England couldn't help an unsettled feeling. “Are you going to hit me some more?” Russia asked, in his best little-kid voice. England shuddered.
“You want me to knock your teeth out?”
England couldn't quite look away from the other man's eyes, as he whispered, “I want you to try.”
“Then you're shit out of luck,” said England, folding the knife up, and putting his gun down. “I don't want to play this game with you.”
“You don't want to play this game with me...” Russia repeated, forlornly. “It is a nice game, England. It will make you feel very nice. And it is a long, long flight.” England watched him, worried, as he shimmied out of his coat and scarf, and held his arms above his head, wrists crossed. England knew what that pose said. The man rolled his hips forward, and England started at the incongruity of the gesture-- it was something he would have expected to see from Francis, or even Spain. “You can do anything you want to me,” Russia whispered.
England felt goosebumps break out on his arms. “Why?” he asked.
Russia just smiled.