The Companion [9.5/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:24:32 UTC
"I would not want your delicate little hands to be cold." Russia was already lacing up his boots. America joined him, the two of them hunched over as their laces snaked in and out of brass eyelets. Russia finished before America and took the opportunity to help his captive tie his shoes. When they both stood, Russia gave him a quick brush down with his hands and glossed over the rumpled bits of the coat.
"My hands are made out of tough stuff, they'll be fine." America took the gloves and tossed them on an end table. "Can we get a move on now?"
Russia pulled a key ring from his own pocket, jangling them in his hand, the metal keys glinting as they swung. "As you wish." He pulled the front door back, a cold gust of wind rushing into the house the moment it was open. America was out the door in less than a breath, skipping down the few steps that lead up to the door, ankle-deep snow crunching beneath his weight.
He checked over his shoulders as he stomped around, Russia was following him closely, taking no time to lock the door behind him. America put his feet together and hopped through the snow a bit, testing his legs, testing the ground. He raised a hand to his eyes to diffuse the glare of the sun and gazed at the house.
It was a single story, but still it managed to tower above him, the roof sloping into a steeple. It was painted with a faded pale color, if it could even be considered a proper color. America thought it looked more like what would take the place of color if it ever disappeared. Thick maroon drapes hung in every window, giving the house an empty, unwelcoming air.
America turned with a childish whirl of his arms to observe what lay outside his home. The snow engulfed everything, from the twisted, drying trees that spread into a thick forest of evergreens, to a rundown farm that was settled to the left of the house. It was a sitting safety hazard if America had ever seen one.
Shingles had peeled and fallen away from the roof, leaving bald patches that displayed naked rafters. The building in its entirety had the appearance of an old, tired animal. Its bulk swayed to one side in an obvious lean, tired from the many years it had stood straight and proud. What windows remained displayed terrible cracks, fractures spreading in sharp angular waves from their starting points. None of this seemed to deter Russia, though, who was steadily making for the front of it.
America traced Russia's footsteps until he reached him. Russia was working on opening the barn doors, both of them, as though he were planning to move something very large out it. America set to helping them, driving his shoulder against the splintered wood as his feet slipped in the snow, struggling for firm ground.
"Are we going to ride horses to town?" he joked.
"Yes, many horses." Russia replied.
America poked his head into the barn once the doors had been swung open. Shafts of light lanced through the holes in the roof, piercing the heavy shadows of the barn's interior, sweeping across a large black... thing. America took a few steps back in an attempt to broaden his perspective, to make sense of what lay within.
Two round reflective eyes stared back, a large metal grill grinning in his direction. America blinked and cocked his head to the side. A car? Who kept cars in barns? Couldn't Russia park his car in a proper garage? America shook his head wearily and stood aside when he heard the closing slam of the car's door followed by the loud rumble of the engine. He inwardly bet that it would be a fogey old clunker that belonged in a museum. He was wrong.
Instead, a huge lug of an automobile rolled out, its bulky mass barely fitting through the doors. With its huge frame and faded green hues, it was distinctly military. America decided it was a love child between a tank and a hard-top jeep, if that made any sense. Which, it really didn't, but the damn car-truck-tank-whatever the hell it was didn't make sense either, so it was all rather fitting.
"My hands are made out of tough stuff, they'll be fine." America took the gloves and tossed them on an end table. "Can we get a move on now?"
Russia pulled a key ring from his own pocket, jangling them in his hand, the metal keys glinting as they swung. "As you wish." He pulled the front door back, a cold gust of wind rushing into the house the moment it was open. America was out the door in less than a breath, skipping down the few steps that lead up to the door, ankle-deep snow crunching beneath his weight.
He checked over his shoulders as he stomped around, Russia was following him closely, taking no time to lock the door behind him. America put his feet together and hopped through the snow a bit, testing his legs, testing the ground. He raised a hand to his eyes to diffuse the glare of the sun and gazed at the house.
It was a single story, but still it managed to tower above him, the roof sloping into a steeple. It was painted with a faded pale color, if it could even be considered a proper color. America thought it looked more like what would take the place of color if it ever disappeared. Thick maroon drapes hung in every window, giving the house an empty, unwelcoming air.
America turned with a childish whirl of his arms to observe what lay outside his home. The snow engulfed everything, from the twisted, drying trees that spread into a thick forest of evergreens, to a rundown farm that was settled to the left of the house. It was a sitting safety hazard if America had ever seen one.
Shingles had peeled and fallen away from the roof, leaving bald patches that displayed naked rafters. The building in its entirety had the appearance of an old, tired animal. Its bulk swayed to one side in an obvious lean, tired from the many years it had stood straight and proud. What windows remained displayed terrible cracks, fractures spreading in sharp angular waves from their starting points. None of this seemed to deter Russia, though, who was steadily making for the front of it.
America traced Russia's footsteps until he reached him. Russia was working on opening the barn doors, both of them, as though he were planning to move something very large out it. America set to helping them, driving his shoulder against the splintered wood as his feet slipped in the snow, struggling for firm ground.
"Are we going to ride horses to town?" he joked.
"Yes, many horses." Russia replied.
America poked his head into the barn once the doors had been swung open. Shafts of light lanced through the holes in the roof, piercing the heavy shadows of the barn's interior, sweeping across a large black... thing. America took a few steps back in an attempt to broaden his perspective, to make sense of what lay within.
Two round reflective eyes stared back, a large metal grill grinning in his direction. America blinked and cocked his head to the side. A car? Who kept cars in barns? Couldn't Russia park his car in a proper garage? America shook his head wearily and stood aside when he heard the closing slam of the car's door followed by the loud rumble of the engine. He inwardly bet that it would be a fogey old clunker that belonged in a museum. He was wrong.
Instead, a huge lug of an automobile rolled out, its bulky mass barely fitting through the doors. With its huge frame and faded green hues, it was distinctly military. America decided it was a love child between a tank and a hard-top jeep, if that made any sense. Which, it really didn't, but the damn car-truck-tank-whatever the hell it was didn't make sense either, so it was all rather fitting.
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