The Companion [1.5/??]
anonymous
March 31 2010, 23:52:51 UTC
Things happened rapid succession, despite the slow passing of precious seconds. America knew he was being dragged backwards, being slammed down against the hood of the settling car. An elbow, not his own, connected with the middle of his back, causing him to cry out in pain.
America's body gave up before his mind did, relenting in its fight to get free, opting to gasp like a fish out of water.
Inky black trails dripped before America's eyes with his first intake of breath. His body loosened, slumped, twisted as it slid down and across the hood. Again he felt an arm wrapping around him, but it was distant, holding him from some far off place.
His being felt skewed from his body, infinitesimally at first, but more so as he discovered he was being lifted. His mind was left on the pavement, duly noting the sound of a car door opening, while his body was unceremoniously laid across the backseat. A hand slid behind his head, raising it momentarily. When it pulled away, what America thought might be a pillow took its place.
With what little strength remained in his body, America raised his own hand to swipe the cloth away. It connected with an arm, which effortlessly brushed him aside. America let his hand flop down and slurred out a protest, eyelids flickering as he struggled to return to his mind. A faint, garbled voice responded as the world melted, churning slowly until it became solid sheet of black. America gave himself up to the blackness.
------ A/N: I'm not terribly happy with the quality of this chapter, but I think once I can actually start writing interactions and scenes with these two together (which will happen in the next chapter), it'll step the story up a bit, since having a single character can only be interesting for so many words.
I apologise for any typos, my usual beta-er is diligently studying her brains out so I have to self-beta and, well, I am no good at that. :>
Last but not least, I like scheduled updates, so this story should be updated every Wednesday.
Re: The Companion [1.5/??]
anonymous
April 3 2010, 04:55:25 UTC
I'm glad you enjoy them as much as I do! Without them I don't work in nearly such a timely fashion. Deadlines are one of the few things that actually get me to start writing.
The Companion [2.1]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 16:54:20 UTC
America stretched languidly beneath warm covers, curling his back into a delicate arch, taking the first deep breath of the new day. He coughed as the breath hitched in his throat, grating and raw. He found the insides of his mouth swollen and dry, his tongue like wire mesh.
He heaved himself into an upright position and clutched the sheets until his hacking fit had passed. His eyes remained unopened. The morning, there was something distinctly wrong with it. The usual fiery beams of sunlight that kicked his mind awake at dawn weren't shining, their warm caress absent from America's skin.
With a dramatic sigh and a sputter, America pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffled weakly. His mind was sluggish, processing at a painfully slow pace. He was almost painfully aware of his brains. Not that they were doing anything besides taking up space. They were crammed uncomfortably into his head, useless as a chess board with no pieces.
He opened his eyes and looked to the window. There was a wall where it should have been. Lazily crawling out of bed, thoughts still half perched in sleep, America ambled to where the window should have been, assuming he was dreaming.
His foot snagged along the way, sending him hurtling to the floor face-first. The impact snapped him into full wakefulness as he struggled back to his feet, touching a hand under his nose for any blood, relieved when he found none. That habit of leaving clothes on the floor was quite literally going to be his downfall.
He swished his foot backwards to kick the garment aside, but winced as it instead connected with something much more solid. Momentarily forgetting his quest to find out how he had misplaced his window, America turned around.
It was a box. Cardboard, half-empty, the inside littered with small knick knacks and bric-a-brac. His head slowly tilted to the side, attempting to make sense of it. None of it looked like it belonged to him. He gazed about for an explanation, only to be met with several dozen more boxes.
Some were precariously strewn about the room, others stacked in careful heaps. They were filled with a bevy of items, from heavy tomes of knowledge, to poorly-sewn dolls, one even had what looked to be colorful handkerchiefs. The single thing they all had in common was that America had never seen any of it before.
He nibbled absentmindedly on his lower lip as he glanced over the clutter. It looked like someone had been in the middle of a move, but had been forced to end up fleeing in a rush. Certainly it wasn't as if he compiled such an odd assortment of items in his sleep─
The chewing stopped as he thought back to how he slept. Unusual dreams, not quite nightmares, but nonetheless filled with anxiety, had plagued him. He had dreamt of being bounced about in a car, irritatingly warm under a heavy cover. There had been the rotary noises of a motor, the slice of air as propellers spun feverishly.
Voices─ no, a voice had been present for the entirety of his sleep. A rough grumble, at first saying what sounded like threats, but soon shifting to softer words and kinder tones of assured safety. The dreams buzzed loudly in America's ears, played as lifelike smudges swam past his eyes. They were all too vivid─ too real.
America's knees buckled beneath him, sending him back to the floor. He made not a sound, too overwhelmed with the prospect he was facing. He had been kipnapped. Straight up, no sweet talk or candy in cars, simply taken by force at the apparent whim of Russia.
It had to be Russia. He must have been planning it all along, with his unreal expressions and excited shakes. Even then, at the meeting, he had most likely been envisioning the blueprints in his head. Surrounded by people, in the presence of the one he was going to snatch away, he still couldn't stop himself from nearly bursting with giddiness.
The Companion [2.2/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 16:56:20 UTC
Cold waves of alarm rolled over America as he lay on the floor, eyes locked on nothingness. What was Russia going to do to him? Something weird, something wrong, no doubt. Carve out his tongue, hang him from the rafters, possibly both? Worse yet, Russia could be under the impression that he could control America, like a little puppet, force him to bend foreign policies and start new wars.
Escape. America would have to escape before Russia came back. He clamored to his feet and lurched to the only window he could see through the forest of boxes. His cheek slammed against the pane of glass in his haste, and he tasted the light tang of blood in his mouth. He'd have to move more slowly.
He looked for a way to open the window, some kind of lock, any kind of latch. It was a solid, clear sheet. His fingers slid over it, the feeling beneath them not that of glass, but something stronger, resistant to force. Plexiglass. The window was covered in shallow scrapes that dipped beneath America's touch. How many people had been in this room before, and how many of them had scratched at this very same window?
America pressed his forehead against it and stared at the outside world. Iron bars fell across his view, ensuring there would be no way in, and no way out. Outside was bleak, a vast white plain, snow drizzling at a slight slant. A few trees, so far away they appeared fuzzed around the edges, populated the emptiness. Not another house in sight.
Abandoning an escape through the window, America made for the door, careful not to face-plant again. He pulled on the knob, unsurprised when he found it to be locked. He could only wait for it to be opened.
Refusing to lay back and wait, America decided to look for a weapon. He turned boxes on their sides, hands fluttering through papers and dish towels. Everything was a blurred mass to him, without real form or distinct edges. It reminded him of how crummy his vision was without glasses.
Thinking of his spectacles, America raised a hand to touch them, like a security blanket. His hand met nothing but skin. America let out a weak cry at the discovery, today was not his day.
Knowing his search for a weapon would be hindered by his eyesight, America resolved to first find his glasses. He went back to the bed, rifling through the nearby nightstand. There was a notepad, blank as far as America could tell, and a pencil. No glasses.
He scoped out the covers, pulling them off, investigating between the folds to see if his spectacles had fallen off while he slept. No matter how many times he ran his hands over the bed, or searched through the nightstand, his glasses were nowhere to be found.
The echo of footsteps snapped America's attention away from his investigation. There was no time to look for his specs, he needed that weapon more than anything now. He scurried back to the overturned boxes, weighing several objects at a time in his hand, trying to find which was the heaviest.
America settled on a round, fairly weighted object. Figuring it must have been a paperweight, America retreated back to bed with it in hand. He pulled the covers up to his chin, blurry vision fixed on the entrance, paperweight hidden in his palm.
The clomp of heavy boots came to a stop outside the door. America tightened his grip on the weight, readied himself to hurl it across the room the instant that fat Russian head poked its way in.
The clink of a key being placed in a lock sounded, followed by the twist and snap of the door being unlocked. The hinges wheezed with loud creeks as they were opened, slowly, so slowly America's nerves began to burn with anticipation. In a moment of clarity, he sprawled his limbs beneath the covers, shut his eyes, feigning sleep. Russia would be easy pickings.
He heard the swoop of a body entering the room, the quick snap of the door as it was closed. Floorboards creaked, and the atmosphere changed in a manner that was almost tangible. It moved from stuffy and bothersome, to overbearing, almost suffocating.
The Companion [2.3/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 16:57:45 UTC
America's fingers loosened on his makeshift weapon. Maybe throwing things at Russia wasn't such a good idea. America would have the element of surprise, but Russia might recover more quickly than anticipated and in turn pulverize him into a fine pulp.
It was too late to change his mind. America snapped up in bed and threw the paper weight with everything he had, grunting with the effort. It soared straight at Russia, who was halfway to the bed. He dropped an object from his own hand to the floor as he raised his arm to defend himself. It was struck with a sickening thud.
America stared on with disbelief, too surprised that he had really hit Russia to scramble out of bed and run. He squinted, strained his eyes to see what Russia's reaction was. He only shoved up his sleeve and gave it a quick look, a seamless recovery. America shrunk back into the sheets.
"Good morning," Russia bit out, retrieving the object he had let slip from his hand.
"H-hey," America mumbled back, peering over the covers at Russia. He didn't dare shoot a glance at what the other man was carrying, knowing from his last experience that it was unwise to look away. Not to mention he could pick up on the strained edge of Russia's voice, hear that violent twinge of wanting to strike back and then some.
Russia pulled a chair from behind a stack of boxes, never quite turning away from his captive. He dragged it over to the side of the bed, ignoring America's winces as the legs scraped and screamed against the floor. Once it bumped against the mattress, he took a seat, placing the object on the bedside table.
"America," Russia murmured, leaning in over the bed. His bulk took up most of distance between them, eliminating any kind of person space America might have enjoyed, but in return America could now see Russia much more clearly. There was a cruel, rigid quality to his expression that made America wish his vision was worse than it already was.
"Russia," America returned, giving a single nod. He smelled Russia's breath as it tickled against his nose, the usual tinge of alcohol absent.
"I give you my hospitality, open my home to you, and do my best to ensure your comfort and safety on the trip over. Etiquette dictates you must be thankful, almost unendingly, wouldn't you say?" As he spoke, Russia's hand thumped a single time on America's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As America struggled to regain his breath and Russia kept talking, his hand slowly traveled upwards, coming to rest at America's throat.
"You stole me off the streets," America spat back, shoving Russia's hand away. "You knocked me out and brought me to Ice Station Zebra!"
"Do not be ungrateful," Russia snarled, his hand easily snaking back up America's throat, massaging, pressing, clutching.
America shut his mouth, body continuing to squirm, desperately trying to slither away from the nails that scraped at his throat. He was sure he'd be receiving a blow to the head at any moment, or to be strangled into a state of submission. Or until he flat out died.
Russia drew his hands away from America's throat, but did not move back entirely. America's vision was blocked by his entire body, massive and all consuming. Everything felt taken from him by this massive excuse for a man. His glasses, his freedom, and now even his insides were beginning to feel like they no longer belonged to him. Russia was so close it was as if the other man were consuming any identity America was permitted to have.
America's nerves were too shot for subtlety, and so he shoved at Russia's chest, forcing him to pull back. He pouted and looked away, giving no indication that he wanted to interact with Russia. Even if he was forced to exist in the same space, America wasn't going to make it easy. Every word Russia extracted from his mouth was going to be a fight.
The Companion [2.4/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:00:00 UTC
Russia sighed, shifted in his chair, one leg crossing the other. He wasn't going anywhere. America studied the pale walls of the room with disinterest, listening to as Russia leaned from one side to another, drumming his fingers on the nightstand with a bored edge before looking inside it. The scrabble of a pencil being picked up and the flutter of notepad pages as they were flicked through touched against America's ears.
"Patient proving hostile," Russia dictated, writing down his words as he went. "Refuses to be handled, must be given 200 cc's of─"
"I'm not hostile!" America kicked at the sheets, legs entangling themselves. "How can you expect me to be a little ball of sunshine, to curl around your legs like a friendly cat?"
Russia tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, pale lips twitching up at the corners. "How kind of you to join me, America."
"Join you? Like Hell, I'm not a godless commie."
"Watch your tongue," Russia reminded him with a gentle, patronizing tone. "And hands where I can see them," he added as an afterthought.
America grudgingly placed his hands on his lap, smoothing the wrinkles of the sheets in a feeble attempt to hide trembling fingers. Russia quietly stared at them, smile growing as he registered the shaking. He wrote something down without looking at the paper.
"Stop that," America commanded, voice lacking any true authority.
"Hm, stop what?" Russia looked him in the eye and continued to write.
America stared at the bridge of Russia's nose, unwilling to return his gaze. "That thing with the writing, like you're some kind of─"
"You like the cereal with the tiger man on it, yes?" Russia interrupted. "What is he, really? I used to think he was a man in an animal suit, but after looking at him more closely he might just be a very ugly tiger. American tigers are quite ugly, don't you think? They must have a disease of some sort."
"W-what?" America stammered.
"I was looking through your house and saw─"
"My house? I never gave you permission to go in there, stay the fuck out!"
"Such vulgar words are unbecoming for such a pretty voice. I must ask you not to use them."
America's brain spiraled into a pit of confusion. The thought of Russia in his house made his skin crawl, his teeth ache, and eyes water. It was a violation of his safety, of his trust. Not that he had any to spare for Russia. And those words, claiming America had a pretty voice. They sounded like more of a threat than a compliment, as if Russia might rip out his vocal chords to stop him from cursing.
"Why were you in my home?" America scoffed, doing his best impersonation of the stiff upper lip England always had stapled to his face.
"I was looking for you." Russia kicked his feet up and onto the bed, boots and all. "You live in such a lovely neighborhood, I cannot blame you for leaving the front door unlocked. Your house was surprisingly neat, not counting your room. All the paperwork I could want, so conveniently filed away in carefully marked folders." He hummed happily to himself, closing his eyes as his mind wandered back to the memory.
America shook his head in disbelief before burying his face in his hands. "You're kidding me. You have to be kidding me."
"If it eases your distress any, I would have caught you no matter what."
"'Scuse me?" America asked, spying through his fingers.
"You could have been home, at a loved one's house, or out on the streets as you were. Where you hid would have made little difference. It is impossible to run from me."
"I wasn't hiding from you to begin with," America argued weakly.
"Yes you were, in some trees. You hit your head rather hard, from the sound of it."
"Oh, that."
"Speaking of which, does it still hurt?" Russia reached over, fingertips finding their way to the back of America's skull.
America blinked, shuddered at the feather-light touch that made his heart quiver. "No, not at all. Now get your grubby hands off me," he growled.
Russia sat back. "Such a feisty spirit you have. It is cute for now, but it may not be so much in the future."
The Companion [2.5/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:01:02 UTC
"Whatever."
"Going back a bit, about that tiger. That is a cereal you enjoy, is it not?"
"They're called Frosted Flakes, and what's it to you?"
"Well, as I said before, I was going through your home. I went through the cupboards to see what food you like and noticed them. After all, one would not purchase a puppy without finding out what it ate beforehand."
"I'm not something from a store, y'know. I can just not eat whatever you try to feed me. It's all poisoned, I bet."
"You have such little faith in me, America. Why would I attempt to poison you now? I could easily have killed you earlier, when you were nothing but a limp doll in my arms, almost endearingly vulnerable." Russia scratched gently along America's jaw, like he would a beloved pet.
America shuddered and jerked his head away. Russia's words struck him down to the bone, seeped into the marrow like an unwanted chill. He wanted to block them out, refuse how they made him feel, or at least make them stop flowing. "Fine. I'll eat your stupid food, but only if you taste test it first."
"I'm pleased we could come to such an agreement." Russia motioned at the bedside table. "I brought you something to start off with until I could be sure of what you like ."
For the first time since he had entered the room, America looked away from Russia. A box lay on the nightstand, a large carton. Orange blurs that vaguely resembled fish dotted the packaging, decorated with black blotches that looked like sunglasses.
"Goldfish?" America asked flatly.
"Yes, and don't pretend you don't like them because you were eating them, I saw you."
America returned his gaze to Russia. "Do you know how creepy the things you say are, or is it like a natural gift?"
"I speak only the truth."
"Well you sure make it sound freaky." America reached for the carton, turned it over in his hands to make sure it had not been tampered with, but realised it was a fruitless endeavor without his glasses. "What'd you do with my glasses?"
"I've been holding onto them for safekeeping, I'm sure you understand," Russia said airily, as if his reason for having them was obvious.
"Fantastic. Now that I'm awake, give 'em back." America grimaced inwardly at the idea of Russia holding his glasses. Running his grimy gloves over them, studying the lenses so closely the glass fogged from his breath.
"No."
America slumped back into the pillows of the bed, tapping his fingers along the carton in his lap. "They're not yours to keep."
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."
"I don't want to play games, Russia, hand 'em over."
"I left you with your coat, be grateful for that. Not to mention I brought most of your wardrobe."
"So you not only kidnapped me, but robbed me as well?"
"With good reason. I would not want you to resort to wearing the same outfit every day." Russia coughed into his hand. "Not that it really stops you."
"You're a madman. A complete and utter lunatic. You break into my house, go through my food, probably eat some of it too, then search my work documents and pack my clothes up. I don't think there's any hope for you, I mean, maybe I once did. There may have been a time where I looked across the meeting table and thought 'Hey, he might be a commie, but he might also like mini golf'. How wrong I was, how little I knew."
"It's not like that," Russia assured, face pleading. "I did not only search through your files, I brought them as well."
"Did you bring the kitchen sink too?" America asked, tone bordering on the edge of hysteria. There were papers in there that were meant for no one's eyes but his own, papers that could throw the national security of the nation into jeopardy.
The Companion [2.6/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:03:32 UTC
"It was a joke, like, you know the saying─" America let out a flustered breath and threw his hands in the air. "Pretend I never even mentioned it."
Russia reached over to take America's hands in his own, patting them in a caring fashion. "You needn't be upset, I will be gone soon enough."
America slipped his hands from Russia's grasps, folding his arms to shield himself. "Where're you headin' off to?"
"I'm going to pick up some groceries. Or I would, if you'd tell me what you'd like."
America brightened, seeing the slightest light at the end of the tunnel. If he cooperated, Russia would be out of his hair much sooner. He fumbled with the box in his lap, tore the top off and shoveled a handful a fish into his mouth, good ideas always made him hungry. "More of these, for starters."
Russia wrote it down and nodded for America to go on.
"Uh, some cookies. Specifically the ones the animals ones that are all pink and white. Also some soda, any kind is good."
"Is there any real food you would like?"
America munched away thoughtfully. "Not that I can really think of. Surprise me─ but no weird stuff!"
"Of course, no cow tongues or sheep eyes."
"Great, now you can mosey along." America ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth, removing bits and chips of goldfish from his teeth. "But before you do that, mind getting me a drink?"
"It would be my pleasure." Russia stood slowly before leaving the room without a backwards glance.
America watched him leave, watched as he left the door ajar. A sliver, a gap of freedom. If he acted quickly, America could make a break for it, flee into the open world. Except he didn't know the layout of the house. He could run smack dab into a wall on accident and knock his own lights out. If not that, Russia would have the upper hand of chasing him down, knowing the ins and outs of his home. Better to stay put for now.
Russia peeked around the doorframe as America wrapped his thoughts up neatly. He shook a bottle of vodka before himself as he entered, face unusually blank. "Will this do?" He asked.
America rubbed a hand along his neck as Russia approached him. Being inebriated around his captor wasn't at the top of his to-do list, but a sip or two couldn't hurt. However, the chance existed that Russia had put something in it. America wouldn't put it past him, considering the man was a-okay with drugging people and piloting them on a cross-continental flight without permission.
"Drink some first," America said simply.
"Surely you understand that I will be driving to the store," Russia muttered, a frown tugging at his lips.
"I didn't say I wanted you to chug it. Just a mouthful, to prove you haven't drugged it."
Russia shook his head and sighed, coat rippling as he shrugged his consent. "As you wish."
America silently stared, grateful for the closeness of their proximity as Russia tipped the bottle to his mouth, lips pressed against the opening. His Adam's apple lay perfectly still, giving not a single bob as he took a swig of vodka. Or at least, pretended to. A pleased smile played across America's lips. He knew exactly what to do.
"Seeing that you haven't bought the farm yet, I guess it'll be alright to drink." America held out his hand, fingers curling momentarily with expectation.
Russia murmured a word or two about trust in a tone too low and somber for America to fully hear and handed the bottle over. America eagerly clutched the neck of the bottle and held it to his lips, pressed in much the same fashion as Russia had done. His inner child laughed wildly and pointed out that he was kissing Russia by proxy. It had a terrible knack for popping up when he was under mind-numbing amounts of stress.
America lowered the bottle and mentally scolded himself. Now was not the time for schoolyard talk. It wasn't like Russia had cooties, or would point and giggle at him once he took a drink. Russia coughed politely again, the same cough that had preceded the darkness. America nearly dropped the bottle at the noise before turning to look at him, eyes trained again on the bridge of his nose.
The Companion [2.7/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:05:28 UTC
"I'm not dead, really," Russia assured him, holding out his arm, palm up, to America. "Touch it."
America delicately placed his hand in Russia's, listening to the crinkle of stiff leather, watching as Russia's gloved hand lightly squeezed his own. They sat quietly for a moment, America looking at his hand in Russia's own, unamused by how pale and dainty it looked. He didn't even know what this was accomplishing, or if it was even had anything to accomplish.
"What's this all about?" America questioned.
Russia's expression was slightly dazed, his awareness simmering under a layer of blank thought. "I am sure it had a point, but I cannot recall it now..." He trailed, dropping America's hand.
"Er, I'm sure." America clasped the bottle in both hands and raised it once more to his lips.
He pretended, as Russia had, to drink. Trained better in the art of acting, America forced himself to gulp at the nothingness in his mouth several times. He removed the bottle from his lips and set it on the nightstand, letting out the sated sigh of one who has had their thirst slaked.
"Is it to your tastes?" Russia said after a moment.
"Nothing to write home about, but it'll do for now." America yawned, debating how long he should take before putting on a show. After several moments, he relaxed his body, loosening every little muscle that came to mind. He fought momentarily against the covers, whining, low and drawn out. "Son'uva bitch. What'd you put in it this time?"
"I do not know what you're talking about."
"Don't even try that on me." America dropped his head back onto the pillow, throwing is restlessly from side to side. "You spiked the drink. I bet you didn't even have any."
"That is correct, I did not taste it."
America shut his eyes and stilled, using all his self control not to spit in Russia's face for trying to trick him again. But this time, the upper hand was his. Fool me once, shame on you, he thought, fool me twice, and I will jack your shit up.
Russia sat at America's side for awhile, the soft inhale, and slightly wheezing exhale, almost metronome-like in their consistency. He eventually rose from his seat, but did not leave. It sounded to America as if Russia were moving something about, not around the room, but on his person. If there was anything even resembling a God, America knew he would not, could not, be stripping.
He nearly flinched at the cool skin that brushed against his forehead, flicking a few stray hairs from his brow. The pads of Russia's bare fingers lovingly dancing down his temple, skimming over his cheek with an intimacy that America had never thought Russia capable of.
"You know," Russia whispered, his tail of his words trailing along the shell of America's ear, "I prefer you awake. I enjoy your responsiveness, the warmth of your flesh as it presses against mine in our little tussles. Even now, in the weakness of slumber, you are beautiful, and almost─" he paused, searching for the right word. "─almost forgivable. But it is not enough. I want you awake, writhing in my hands, speaking to me, in insults or niceties I do not care. All I want is your companionship," Russia said the last words in an anguished hiss.
Once Russia's confession sunk into America's mind, he visibly balked, lurching up in bed with the shock of it. The door clicked closed the moment his eyes locked on it, Russia having fled from the room the instant he had finished speaking. The distinctive clank of the door being locked echoed in the room.
America stared dumbly ahead of himself, piecing together what had happened in such a short amount of time. Russia was a monster, something mothers warned their children about, not a person who desired the mere presence of other people. He hoarded human beings like one might hoard a doll collection, adding more and more when he had no right to.
The Companion [2.8/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:07:33 UTC
He certainly didn't view people as living, breathing things, with wants and needs of their own. They were only around to serve him, provide entertainment. No matter what he pretended to be, Russia was not human, his mind dwelt in places that none ever should, and committed acts so horrific there were no words to describe them.
America lay in bed, giving himself reason after reason for why he had to escape. He perked up at what he thought might be the sound of the front door opening and closing, elated that Russia was already on his way to the store. Now all he had to do was jimmy the lock on the door and he'd be home free.
He swung his legs over the bed, dangling his toes above the flooring. He'd have to pull a MacGyver, using only the most basic of items to break out. Surely there would be something of use to him in one of the many boxes.
He began to overturn boxes once again on the floor with reckless abandon, only half-registering what they contained before moving onto the next. A yip of glee rolled of his tongue as he heard a metallic, tinny clatter as dozens of paperclips bounced across the floor.
America crouched down, fingers flailing until they snagged one of the clips. He brought it to his lips, planted a grateful kiss on the malleable frame. After bestowing it with silent thanks, he unraveled the wire, approaching the door as he did his best to turn the rounded of the clip edges into a straight line.
He worked the clip into the keyhole, aimlessly shoving it around within the lock mechanism, hoping for the door to simply recognize his awesomeness and pop open. When it didn't, America resorted to prodding more slowly, trying to hook and press at the insides of the lock.
He thought about how long it would be until Russia was back. Half an hour would be a good estimate. Chances were Russia didn't exactly live close to town, and the snow-covered ground would only lengthen the trip. America figured he would even have time to snoop about, find a few things to blackmail Russia with in the future.
The door refused to give. America whined in irritation, unwilling to believe an inanimate object could be so stubborn. He shoved his shoulder against it a few times, earning only an unsatisfying rattle from the door. A tiny, biting voice began to nag at him, remind him every other second that he was wasting time.
What if Russia really wasn't that far from the store? For all America knew, it could be within walking distance of the house, and he only thought it far because he couldn't see it from his window. Icy tendrils of worry twined around America's common sense as he continued to think, constricting his calmness.
Maybe it would be best to wait for another opportunity. Not that America wanted to stick around, but so far staying in this room wasn't the worst experience of his life. Russia had been unexpectedly kind, calm, hadn't even struck out at him when he'd had a paperweight chucked at him.
America shook his head fervently and continued to work at the lock. Thinking about Russia as anything but an inhuman beast was wrong. His hands weren't soft, his words weren't kind, and he certainly didn't want America around just for some company.
A gentle creak reached America's ears as the door slowly opened. He gaped at it, having been too deep in thought to notice he had unlocked it. Without thinking, he jerked it back shut. Should he really leave? Since when was escaping one's kidnapper so easy?
The annoying voice that had previously nagged America about Russia's return came back for a second go. Have you heard about a little something called Stockholm Syndrome? It asked him.
"Yeah, it's that kooky thing people get when they're taken hostage. They start thinking their captors are pretty stand-up guys," America said, unaware that he was conversing with himself aloud.
I can't help but notice you've had a few thoughts similar to that regarding Russia.
The Companion [2.9/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:15:12 UTC
"You shut up, this isn't anything like that! I'm only glad he didn't snuff me out the second he had the chance to─" America paused, features slackening with surprise. That kind of sounded exactly like what he knew about Stockholm Syndrome, or at least the beginnings of it. Being thankful to your captor because of the mere fact they haven't taken your life.
America jerked the doorknob open with a wild twist of his wrist, blocked out any form of thought, and bolted through the open door as the satisfied cackle of his inner voice pounded in his head. He was losing his damn mind.
--------- A/N: I promised myself that this fill wouldn't be as long as the last one I did, promised myself the chapters would only be roughly 3k words long. This chapter was closing in on 6k. This is obviously not going according to plan.
Re: The Companion [2.9/??]
anonymous
April 8 2010, 04:40:10 UTC
Aw, but author!anon is doing so -awesome- with this fill~ I just love the way you are writing this. You gotta adore both America and Russia here, especially how America and Russia thinks and all. <3 But oh boy, love the inner child of America and how his mind tells him how similar he is with those with Stockholm Syndrome.
Again, lovely job with the file so far! Keep up the good work!I love forward to the next update. C:
America's body gave up before his mind did, relenting in its fight to get free, opting to gasp like a fish out of water.
Inky black trails dripped before America's eyes with his first intake of breath. His body loosened, slumped, twisted as it slid down and across the hood. Again he felt an arm wrapping around him, but it was distant, holding him from some far off place.
His being felt skewed from his body, infinitesimally at first, but more so as he discovered he was being lifted. His mind was left on the pavement, duly noting the sound of a car door opening, while his body was unceremoniously laid across the backseat. A hand slid behind his head, raising it momentarily. When it pulled away, what America thought might be a pillow took its place.
With what little strength remained in his body, America raised his own hand to swipe the cloth away. It connected with an arm, which effortlessly brushed him aside. America let his hand flop down and slurred out a protest, eyelids flickering as he struggled to return to his mind. A faint, garbled voice responded as the world melted, churning slowly until it became solid sheet of black. America gave himself up to the blackness.
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A/N:
I'm not terribly happy with the quality of this chapter, but I think once I can actually start writing interactions and scenes with these two together (which will happen in the next chapter), it'll step the story up a bit, since having a single character can only be interesting for so many words.
I apologise for any typos, my usual beta-er is diligently studying her brains out so I have to self-beta and, well, I am no good at that. :>
Last but not least, I like scheduled updates, so this story should be updated every Wednesday.
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Updates come soon, da?
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He heaved himself into an upright position and clutched the sheets until his hacking fit had passed. His eyes remained unopened. The morning, there was something distinctly wrong with it. The usual fiery beams of sunlight that kicked his mind awake at dawn weren't shining, their warm caress absent from America's skin.
With a dramatic sigh and a sputter, America pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffled weakly. His mind was sluggish, processing at a painfully slow pace. He was almost painfully aware of his brains. Not that they were doing anything besides taking up space. They were crammed uncomfortably into his head, useless as a chess board with no pieces.
He opened his eyes and looked to the window. There was a wall where it should have been. Lazily crawling out of bed, thoughts still half perched in sleep, America ambled to where the window should have been, assuming he was dreaming.
His foot snagged along the way, sending him hurtling to the floor face-first. The impact snapped him into full wakefulness as he struggled back to his feet, touching a hand under his nose for any blood, relieved when he found none. That habit of leaving clothes on the floor was quite literally going to be his downfall.
He swished his foot backwards to kick the garment aside, but winced as it instead connected with something much more solid. Momentarily forgetting his quest to find out how he had misplaced his window, America turned around.
It was a box. Cardboard, half-empty, the inside littered with small knick knacks and bric-a-brac. His head slowly tilted to the side, attempting to make sense of it. None of it looked like it belonged to him. He gazed about for an explanation, only to be met with several dozen more boxes.
Some were precariously strewn about the room, others stacked in careful heaps. They were filled with a bevy of items, from heavy tomes of knowledge, to poorly-sewn dolls, one even had what looked to be colorful handkerchiefs. The single thing they all had in common was that America had never seen any of it before.
He nibbled absentmindedly on his lower lip as he glanced over the clutter. It looked like someone had been in the middle of a move, but had been forced to end up fleeing in a rush. Certainly it wasn't as if he compiled such an odd assortment of items in his sleep─
The chewing stopped as he thought back to how he slept. Unusual dreams, not quite nightmares, but nonetheless filled with anxiety, had plagued him. He had dreamt of being bounced about in a car, irritatingly warm under a heavy cover. There had been the rotary noises of a motor, the slice of air as propellers spun feverishly.
Voices─ no, a voice had been present for the entirety of his sleep. A rough grumble, at first saying what sounded like threats, but soon shifting to softer words and kinder tones of assured safety. The dreams buzzed loudly in America's ears, played as lifelike smudges swam past his eyes. They were all too vivid─ too real.
America's knees buckled beneath him, sending him back to the floor. He made not a sound, too overwhelmed with the prospect he was facing. He had been kipnapped. Straight up, no sweet talk or candy in cars, simply taken by force at the apparent whim of Russia.
It had to be Russia. He must have been planning it all along, with his unreal expressions and excited shakes. Even then, at the meeting, he had most likely been envisioning the blueprints in his head. Surrounded by people, in the presence of the one he was going to snatch away, he still couldn't stop himself from nearly bursting with giddiness.
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Escape. America would have to escape before Russia came back. He clamored to his feet and lurched to the only window he could see through the forest of boxes. His cheek slammed against the pane of glass in his haste, and he tasted the light tang of blood in his mouth. He'd have to move more slowly.
He looked for a way to open the window, some kind of lock, any kind of latch. It was a solid, clear sheet. His fingers slid over it, the feeling beneath them not that of glass, but something stronger, resistant to force. Plexiglass. The window was covered in shallow scrapes that dipped beneath America's touch. How many people had been in this room before, and how many of them had scratched at this very same window?
America pressed his forehead against it and stared at the outside world. Iron bars fell across his view, ensuring there would be no way in, and no way out. Outside was bleak, a vast white plain, snow drizzling at a slight slant. A few trees, so far away they appeared fuzzed around the edges, populated the emptiness. Not another house in sight.
Abandoning an escape through the window, America made for the door, careful not to face-plant again. He pulled on the knob, unsurprised when he found it to be locked. He could only wait for it to be opened.
Refusing to lay back and wait, America decided to look for a weapon. He turned boxes on their sides, hands fluttering through papers and dish towels. Everything was a blurred mass to him, without real form or distinct edges. It reminded him of how crummy his vision was without glasses.
Thinking of his spectacles, America raised a hand to touch them, like a security blanket. His hand met nothing but skin. America let out a weak cry at the discovery, today was not his day.
Knowing his search for a weapon would be hindered by his eyesight, America resolved to first find his glasses. He went back to the bed, rifling through the nearby nightstand. There was a notepad, blank as far as America could tell, and a pencil. No glasses.
He scoped out the covers, pulling them off, investigating between the folds to see if his spectacles had fallen off while he slept. No matter how many times he ran his hands over the bed, or searched through the nightstand, his glasses were nowhere to be found.
The echo of footsteps snapped America's attention away from his investigation. There was no time to look for his specs, he needed that weapon more than anything now. He scurried back to the overturned boxes, weighing several objects at a time in his hand, trying to find which was the heaviest.
America settled on a round, fairly weighted object. Figuring it must have been a paperweight, America retreated back to bed with it in hand. He pulled the covers up to his chin, blurry vision fixed on the entrance, paperweight hidden in his palm.
The clomp of heavy boots came to a stop outside the door. America tightened his grip on the weight, readied himself to hurl it across the room the instant that fat Russian head poked its way in.
The clink of a key being placed in a lock sounded, followed by the twist and snap of the door being unlocked. The hinges wheezed with loud creeks as they were opened, slowly, so slowly America's nerves began to burn with anticipation. In a moment of clarity, he sprawled his limbs beneath the covers, shut his eyes, feigning sleep. Russia would be easy pickings.
He heard the swoop of a body entering the room, the quick snap of the door as it was closed. Floorboards creaked, and the atmosphere changed in a manner that was almost tangible. It moved from stuffy and bothersome, to overbearing, almost suffocating.
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It was too late to change his mind. America snapped up in bed and threw the paper weight with everything he had, grunting with the effort. It soared straight at Russia, who was halfway to the bed. He dropped an object from his own hand to the floor as he raised his arm to defend himself. It was struck with a sickening thud.
America stared on with disbelief, too surprised that he had really hit Russia to scramble out of bed and run. He squinted, strained his eyes to see what Russia's reaction was. He only shoved up his sleeve and gave it a quick look, a seamless recovery. America shrunk back into the sheets.
"Good morning," Russia bit out, retrieving the object he had let slip from his hand.
"H-hey," America mumbled back, peering over the covers at Russia. He didn't dare shoot a glance at what the other man was carrying, knowing from his last experience that it was unwise to look away. Not to mention he could pick up on the strained edge of Russia's voice, hear that violent twinge of wanting to strike back and then some.
Russia pulled a chair from behind a stack of boxes, never quite turning away from his captive. He dragged it over to the side of the bed, ignoring America's winces as the legs scraped and screamed against the floor. Once it bumped against the mattress, he took a seat, placing the object on the bedside table.
"America," Russia murmured, leaning in over the bed. His bulk took up most of distance between them, eliminating any kind of person space America might have enjoyed, but in return America could now see Russia much more clearly. There was a cruel, rigid quality to his expression that made America wish his vision was worse than it already was.
"Russia," America returned, giving a single nod. He smelled Russia's breath as it tickled against his nose, the usual tinge of alcohol absent.
"I give you my hospitality, open my home to you, and do my best to ensure your comfort and safety on the trip over. Etiquette dictates you must be thankful, almost unendingly, wouldn't you say?" As he spoke, Russia's hand thumped a single time on America's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As America struggled to regain his breath and Russia kept talking, his hand slowly traveled upwards, coming to rest at America's throat.
"You stole me off the streets," America spat back, shoving Russia's hand away. "You knocked me out and brought me to Ice Station Zebra!"
"Do not be ungrateful," Russia snarled, his hand easily snaking back up America's throat, massaging, pressing, clutching.
America shut his mouth, body continuing to squirm, desperately trying to slither away from the nails that scraped at his throat. He was sure he'd be receiving a blow to the head at any moment, or to be strangled into a state of submission. Or until he flat out died.
Russia drew his hands away from America's throat, but did not move back entirely. America's vision was blocked by his entire body, massive and all consuming. Everything felt taken from him by this massive excuse for a man. His glasses, his freedom, and now even his insides were beginning to feel like they no longer belonged to him. Russia was so close it was as if the other man were consuming any identity America was permitted to have.
America's nerves were too shot for subtlety, and so he shoved at Russia's chest, forcing him to pull back. He pouted and looked away, giving no indication that he wanted to interact with Russia. Even if he was forced to exist in the same space, America wasn't going to make it easy. Every word Russia extracted from his mouth was going to be a fight.
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"Patient proving hostile," Russia dictated, writing down his words as he went. "Refuses to be handled, must be given 200 cc's of─"
"I'm not hostile!" America kicked at the sheets, legs entangling themselves. "How can you expect me to be a little ball of sunshine, to curl around your legs like a friendly cat?"
Russia tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, pale lips twitching up at the corners. "How kind of you to join me, America."
"Join you? Like Hell, I'm not a godless commie."
"Watch your tongue," Russia reminded him with a gentle, patronizing tone. "And hands where I can see them," he added as an afterthought.
America grudgingly placed his hands on his lap, smoothing the wrinkles of the sheets in a feeble attempt to hide trembling fingers. Russia quietly stared at them, smile growing as he registered the shaking. He wrote something down without looking at the paper.
"Stop that," America commanded, voice lacking any true authority.
"Hm, stop what?" Russia looked him in the eye and continued to write.
America stared at the bridge of Russia's nose, unwilling to return his gaze. "That thing with the writing, like you're some kind of─"
"You like the cereal with the tiger man on it, yes?" Russia interrupted. "What is he, really? I used to think he was a man in an animal suit, but after looking at him more closely he might just be a very ugly tiger. American tigers are quite ugly, don't you think? They must have a disease of some sort."
"W-what?" America stammered.
"I was looking through your house and saw─"
"My house? I never gave you permission to go in there, stay the fuck out!"
"Such vulgar words are unbecoming for such a pretty voice. I must ask you not to use them."
America's brain spiraled into a pit of confusion. The thought of Russia in his house made his skin crawl, his teeth ache, and eyes water. It was a violation of his safety, of his trust. Not that he had any to spare for Russia. And those words, claiming America had a pretty voice. They sounded like more of a threat than a compliment, as if Russia might rip out his vocal chords to stop him from cursing.
"Why were you in my home?" America scoffed, doing his best impersonation of the stiff upper lip England always had stapled to his face.
"I was looking for you." Russia kicked his feet up and onto the bed, boots and all. "You live in such a lovely neighborhood, I cannot blame you for leaving the front door unlocked. Your house was surprisingly neat, not counting your room. All the paperwork I could want, so conveniently filed away in carefully marked folders." He hummed happily to himself, closing his eyes as his mind wandered back to the memory.
America shook his head in disbelief before burying his face in his hands. "You're kidding me. You have to be kidding me."
"If it eases your distress any, I would have caught you no matter what."
"'Scuse me?" America asked, spying through his fingers.
"You could have been home, at a loved one's house, or out on the streets as you were. Where you hid would have made little difference. It is impossible to run from me."
"I wasn't hiding from you to begin with," America argued weakly.
"Yes you were, in some trees. You hit your head rather hard, from the sound of it."
"Oh, that."
"Speaking of which, does it still hurt?" Russia reached over, fingertips finding their way to the back of America's skull.
America blinked, shuddered at the feather-light touch that made his heart quiver. "No, not at all. Now get your grubby hands off me," he growled.
Russia sat back. "Such a feisty spirit you have. It is cute for now, but it may not be so much in the future."
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"Going back a bit, about that tiger. That is a cereal you enjoy, is it not?"
"They're called Frosted Flakes, and what's it to you?"
"Well, as I said before, I was going through your home. I went through the cupboards to see what food you like and noticed them. After all, one would not purchase a puppy without finding out what it ate beforehand."
"I'm not something from a store, y'know. I can just not eat whatever you try to feed me. It's all poisoned, I bet."
"You have such little faith in me, America. Why would I attempt to poison you now? I could easily have killed you earlier, when you were nothing but a limp doll in my arms, almost endearingly vulnerable." Russia scratched gently along America's jaw, like he would a beloved pet.
America shuddered and jerked his head away. Russia's words struck him down to the bone, seeped into the marrow like an unwanted chill. He wanted to block them out, refuse how they made him feel, or at least make them stop flowing. "Fine. I'll eat your stupid food, but only if you taste test it first."
"I'm pleased we could come to such an agreement." Russia motioned at the bedside table. "I brought you something to start off with until I could be sure of what you like ."
For the first time since he had entered the room, America looked away from Russia. A box lay on the nightstand, a large carton. Orange blurs that vaguely resembled fish dotted the packaging, decorated with black blotches that looked like sunglasses.
"Goldfish?" America asked flatly.
"Yes, and don't pretend you don't like them because you were eating them, I saw you."
America returned his gaze to Russia. "Do you know how creepy the things you say are, or is it like a natural gift?"
"I speak only the truth."
"Well you sure make it sound freaky." America reached for the carton, turned it over in his hands to make sure it had not been tampered with, but realised it was a fruitless endeavor without his glasses. "What'd you do with my glasses?"
"I've been holding onto them for safekeeping, I'm sure you understand," Russia said airily, as if his reason for having them was obvious.
"Fantastic. Now that I'm awake, give 'em back." America grimaced inwardly at the idea of Russia holding his glasses. Running his grimy gloves over them, studying the lenses so closely the glass fogged from his breath.
"No."
America slumped back into the pillows of the bed, tapping his fingers along the carton in his lap. "They're not yours to keep."
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."
"I don't want to play games, Russia, hand 'em over."
"I left you with your coat, be grateful for that. Not to mention I brought most of your wardrobe."
"So you not only kidnapped me, but robbed me as well?"
"With good reason. I would not want you to resort to wearing the same outfit every day." Russia coughed into his hand. "Not that it really stops you."
"You're a madman. A complete and utter lunatic. You break into my house, go through my food, probably eat some of it too, then search my work documents and pack my clothes up. I don't think there's any hope for you, I mean, maybe I once did. There may have been a time where I looked across the meeting table and thought 'Hey, he might be a commie, but he might also like mini golf'. How wrong I was, how little I knew."
"It's not like that," Russia assured, face pleading. "I did not only search through your files, I brought them as well."
"Did you bring the kitchen sink too?" America asked, tone bordering on the edge of hysteria. There were papers in there that were meant for no one's eyes but his own, papers that could throw the national security of the nation into jeopardy.
"No, should I have?"
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Russia reached over to take America's hands in his own, patting them in a caring fashion. "You needn't be upset, I will be gone soon enough."
America slipped his hands from Russia's grasps, folding his arms to shield himself. "Where're you headin' off to?"
"I'm going to pick up some groceries. Or I would, if you'd tell me what you'd like."
America brightened, seeing the slightest light at the end of the tunnel. If he cooperated, Russia would be out of his hair much sooner. He fumbled with the box in his lap, tore the top off and shoveled a handful a fish into his mouth, good ideas always made him hungry. "More of these, for starters."
Russia wrote it down and nodded for America to go on.
"Uh, some cookies. Specifically the ones the animals ones that are all pink and white. Also some soda, any kind is good."
"Is there any real food you would like?"
America munched away thoughtfully. "Not that I can really think of. Surprise me─ but no weird stuff!"
"Of course, no cow tongues or sheep eyes."
"Great, now you can mosey along." America ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth, removing bits and chips of goldfish from his teeth. "But before you do that, mind getting me a drink?"
"It would be my pleasure." Russia stood slowly before leaving the room without a backwards glance.
America watched him leave, watched as he left the door ajar. A sliver, a gap of freedom. If he acted quickly, America could make a break for it, flee into the open world. Except he didn't know the layout of the house. He could run smack dab into a wall on accident and knock his own lights out. If not that, Russia would have the upper hand of chasing him down, knowing the ins and outs of his home. Better to stay put for now.
Russia peeked around the doorframe as America wrapped his thoughts up neatly. He shook a bottle of vodka before himself as he entered, face unusually blank. "Will this do?" He asked.
America rubbed a hand along his neck as Russia approached him. Being inebriated around his captor wasn't at the top of his to-do list, but a sip or two couldn't hurt. However, the chance existed that Russia had put something in it. America wouldn't put it past him, considering the man was a-okay with drugging people and piloting them on a cross-continental flight without permission.
"Drink some first," America said simply.
"Surely you understand that I will be driving to the store," Russia muttered, a frown tugging at his lips.
"I didn't say I wanted you to chug it. Just a mouthful, to prove you haven't drugged it."
Russia shook his head and sighed, coat rippling as he shrugged his consent. "As you wish."
America silently stared, grateful for the closeness of their proximity as Russia tipped the bottle to his mouth, lips pressed against the opening. His Adam's apple lay perfectly still, giving not a single bob as he took a swig of vodka. Or at least, pretended to. A pleased smile played across America's lips. He knew exactly what to do.
"Seeing that you haven't bought the farm yet, I guess it'll be alright to drink." America held out his hand, fingers curling momentarily with expectation.
Russia murmured a word or two about trust in a tone too low and somber for America to fully hear and handed the bottle over. America eagerly clutched the neck of the bottle and held it to his lips, pressed in much the same fashion as Russia had done. His inner child laughed wildly and pointed out that he was kissing Russia by proxy. It had a terrible knack for popping up when he was under mind-numbing amounts of stress.
America lowered the bottle and mentally scolded himself. Now was not the time for schoolyard talk. It wasn't like Russia had cooties, or would point and giggle at him once he took a drink. Russia coughed politely again, the same cough that had preceded the darkness. America nearly dropped the bottle at the noise before turning to look at him, eyes trained again on the bridge of his nose.
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America delicately placed his hand in Russia's, listening to the crinkle of stiff leather, watching as Russia's gloved hand lightly squeezed his own. They sat quietly for a moment, America looking at his hand in Russia's own, unamused by how pale and dainty it looked. He didn't even know what this was accomplishing, or if it was even had anything to accomplish.
"What's this all about?" America questioned.
Russia's expression was slightly dazed, his awareness simmering under a layer of blank thought. "I am sure it had a point, but I cannot recall it now..." He trailed, dropping America's hand.
"Er, I'm sure." America clasped the bottle in both hands and raised it once more to his lips.
He pretended, as Russia had, to drink. Trained better in the art of acting, America forced himself to gulp at the nothingness in his mouth several times. He removed the bottle from his lips and set it on the nightstand, letting out the sated sigh of one who has had their thirst slaked.
"Is it to your tastes?" Russia said after a moment.
"Nothing to write home about, but it'll do for now." America yawned, debating how long he should take before putting on a show. After several moments, he relaxed his body, loosening every little muscle that came to mind. He fought momentarily against the covers, whining, low and drawn out. "Son'uva bitch. What'd you put in it this time?"
"I do not know what you're talking about."
"Don't even try that on me." America dropped his head back onto the pillow, throwing is restlessly from side to side. "You spiked the drink. I bet you didn't even have any."
"That is correct, I did not taste it."
America shut his eyes and stilled, using all his self control not to spit in Russia's face for trying to trick him again. But this time, the upper hand was his. Fool me once, shame on you, he thought, fool me twice, and I will jack your shit up.
Russia sat at America's side for awhile, the soft inhale, and slightly wheezing exhale, almost metronome-like in their consistency. He eventually rose from his seat, but did not leave. It sounded to America as if Russia were moving something about, not around the room, but on his person. If there was anything even resembling a God, America knew he would not, could not, be stripping.
He nearly flinched at the cool skin that brushed against his forehead, flicking a few stray hairs from his brow. The pads of Russia's bare fingers lovingly dancing down his temple, skimming over his cheek with an intimacy that America had never thought Russia capable of.
"You know," Russia whispered, his tail of his words trailing along the shell of America's ear, "I prefer you awake. I enjoy your responsiveness, the warmth of your flesh as it presses against mine in our little tussles. Even now, in the weakness of slumber, you are beautiful, and almost─" he paused, searching for the right word. "─almost forgivable. But it is not enough. I want you awake, writhing in my hands, speaking to me, in insults or niceties I do not care. All I want is your companionship," Russia said the last words in an anguished hiss.
Once Russia's confession sunk into America's mind, he visibly balked, lurching up in bed with the shock of it. The door clicked closed the moment his eyes locked on it, Russia having fled from the room the instant he had finished speaking. The distinctive clank of the door being locked echoed in the room.
America stared dumbly ahead of himself, piecing together what had happened in such a short amount of time. Russia was a monster, something mothers warned their children about, not a person who desired the mere presence of other people. He hoarded human beings like one might hoard a doll collection, adding more and more when he had no right to.
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America lay in bed, giving himself reason after reason for why he had to escape. He perked up at what he thought might be the sound of the front door opening and closing, elated that Russia was already on his way to the store. Now all he had to do was jimmy the lock on the door and he'd be home free.
He swung his legs over the bed, dangling his toes above the flooring. He'd have to pull a MacGyver, using only the most basic of items to break out. Surely there would be something of use to him in one of the many boxes.
He began to overturn boxes once again on the floor with reckless abandon, only half-registering what they contained before moving onto the next. A yip of glee rolled of his tongue as he heard a metallic, tinny clatter as dozens of paperclips bounced across the floor.
America crouched down, fingers flailing until they snagged one of the clips. He brought it to his lips, planted a grateful kiss on the malleable frame. After bestowing it with silent thanks, he unraveled the wire, approaching the door as he did his best to turn the rounded of the clip edges into a straight line.
He worked the clip into the keyhole, aimlessly shoving it around within the lock mechanism, hoping for the door to simply recognize his awesomeness and pop open. When it didn't, America resorted to prodding more slowly, trying to hook and press at the insides of the lock.
He thought about how long it would be until Russia was back. Half an hour would be a good estimate. Chances were Russia didn't exactly live close to town, and the snow-covered ground would only lengthen the trip. America figured he would even have time to snoop about, find a few things to blackmail Russia with in the future.
The door refused to give. America whined in irritation, unwilling to believe an inanimate object could be so stubborn. He shoved his shoulder against it a few times, earning only an unsatisfying rattle from the door. A tiny, biting voice began to nag at him, remind him every other second that he was wasting time.
What if Russia really wasn't that far from the store? For all America knew, it could be within walking distance of the house, and he only thought it far because he couldn't see it from his window. Icy tendrils of worry twined around America's common sense as he continued to think, constricting his calmness.
Maybe it would be best to wait for another opportunity. Not that America wanted to stick around, but so far staying in this room wasn't the worst experience of his life. Russia had been unexpectedly kind, calm, hadn't even struck out at him when he'd had a paperweight chucked at him.
America shook his head fervently and continued to work at the lock. Thinking about Russia as anything but an inhuman beast was wrong. His hands weren't soft, his words weren't kind, and he certainly didn't want America around just for some company.
A gentle creak reached America's ears as the door slowly opened. He gaped at it, having been too deep in thought to notice he had unlocked it. Without thinking, he jerked it back shut. Should he really leave? Since when was escaping one's kidnapper so easy?
The annoying voice that had previously nagged America about Russia's return came back for a second go. Have you heard about a little something called Stockholm Syndrome? It asked him.
"Yeah, it's that kooky thing people get when they're taken hostage. They start thinking their captors are pretty stand-up guys," America said, unaware that he was conversing with himself aloud.
I can't help but notice you've had a few thoughts similar to that regarding Russia.
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America jerked the doorknob open with a wild twist of his wrist, blocked out any form of thought, and bolted through the open door as the satisfied cackle of his inner voice pounded in his head. He was losing his damn mind.
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A/N:
I promised myself that this fill wouldn't be as long as the last one I did, promised myself the chapters would only be roughly 3k words long. This chapter was closing in on 6k. This is obviously not going according to plan.
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Again, lovely job with the file so far! Keep up the good work!I love forward to the next update. C:
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