The Companion [9.8/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:35:09 UTC
The truck was picking up speed again, climbing with every word America said. He checked his seat belt for the seventh time since he had buckled himself in. Russia hadn't bothered to put his on to begin with. America decided Russia's leaden foot was a direct result of him speaking, and promptly shut his mouth as his fingernails gripped his seat, the snowy landscape whipping past in a blur.
After what seemed like a forever of silent praying that they wouldn't crash, America spotted a poorly paved road. Russia slowed to a merciful speed as he approached it, but scattered America's recovering nerves by speeding up again once they were on it, every bump and fissure in the pavement painfully apparent as the car jostled with increasing intensity.
"Would you mind slowing down?" America stared at his bone-white knuckles.
"Ah, but I am speeding on your behalf, America."
"I'm sure town is going to stick around if we slow down some."
"I do not doubt that, but you are in such a hurry to leave, I do not want to make you wait."
"Wait, what?" America chanced a peek at Russia. His lips were drawn into a tight, surreal smile, eyes dull and unfocused. "You're letting me go?"
"No." Russia's lip curled back in a cold sneer. "But you will run or draw attention to yourself once we are at the store."
"Don't start acting like a psychic, and a bad one at that. I haven't done anything." Yet.
"But you are thinking about it."
America was afraid to look at the speedometer now, afraid to look out the window to watch the scenery blend together at increasing speeds. He stared at his lap instead, where his hands lay neatly folded. "Russia, you've got to trust me on this. I really want to go to the store, that's all I want to do. I trusted you on all the news stuff, right?"
"Right," Russia's voice shifted from icy and unreasonable to something slightly more thoughtful. "You did." His foot eased off the gas pedal, if only a fraction.
"And," America started up, encouraged. "Haven't we been having a real nice time together? Let me tell you, my Russian buddy, that was a good breakfast." He rubbed his stomach to drive home the point.
"Did you really think so?" The truck's speed dropped even more.
"Yes, absolutely, delicious stuff!" America looked out the window. Things weren't moving nearly as fast as they had been before. "You know me, one good meal and I'll keep coming back for more."
"That is true, very true." Russia relaxed, his expression melting into one of easy confidence. "And, if you tried telling them your situation, I could pass you off as a mentally disturbed relative."
"Uh, yeah. I guess that's a possibility." America shot a quizzical frown at Russia. "Hey, not to change the subject, but I have a question for you."
"Please ask."
"I know I just mentioned the news stuff, but, like, you'll tell me what's going on won't you? Not right now, of course. I don't expect that, but eventually."
Russia's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. For a long while he didn't answer, instead focusing on the road, on which signs had started to appear. The tic tic tic of the turn signal sounded on and off, hints of civilization trickling by. A phone line here, a sprinkling of houses there, the occasional rickety fence bordering a property sprouting up through the whiteness.
"One day," Russia assured. He reached over and gave America a placating pat on the thigh, followed by the lightest of squeezes. "Now," he brightened. "It is time for shopping."
Gravel hissed and popped beneath the tires as Russia steered the truck into a small parking lot, pulling into a space that was three sizes too small for his mechanical beast. The engine gave a heated sigh as it was shut off.
After what seemed like a forever of silent praying that they wouldn't crash, America spotted a poorly paved road. Russia slowed to a merciful speed as he approached it, but scattered America's recovering nerves by speeding up again once they were on it, every bump and fissure in the pavement painfully apparent as the car jostled with increasing intensity.
"Would you mind slowing down?" America stared at his bone-white knuckles.
"Ah, but I am speeding on your behalf, America."
"I'm sure town is going to stick around if we slow down some."
"I do not doubt that, but you are in such a hurry to leave, I do not want to make you wait."
"Wait, what?" America chanced a peek at Russia. His lips were drawn into a tight, surreal smile, eyes dull and unfocused. "You're letting me go?"
"No." Russia's lip curled back in a cold sneer. "But you will run or draw attention to yourself once we are at the store."
"Don't start acting like a psychic, and a bad one at that. I haven't done anything." Yet.
"But you are thinking about it."
America was afraid to look at the speedometer now, afraid to look out the window to watch the scenery blend together at increasing speeds. He stared at his lap instead, where his hands lay neatly folded. "Russia, you've got to trust me on this. I really want to go to the store, that's all I want to do. I trusted you on all the news stuff, right?"
"Right," Russia's voice shifted from icy and unreasonable to something slightly more thoughtful. "You did." His foot eased off the gas pedal, if only a fraction.
"And," America started up, encouraged. "Haven't we been having a real nice time together? Let me tell you, my Russian buddy, that was a good breakfast." He rubbed his stomach to drive home the point.
"Did you really think so?" The truck's speed dropped even more.
"Yes, absolutely, delicious stuff!" America looked out the window. Things weren't moving nearly as fast as they had been before. "You know me, one good meal and I'll keep coming back for more."
"That is true, very true." Russia relaxed, his expression melting into one of easy confidence. "And, if you tried telling them your situation, I could pass you off as a mentally disturbed relative."
"Uh, yeah. I guess that's a possibility." America shot a quizzical frown at Russia. "Hey, not to change the subject, but I have a question for you."
"Please ask."
"I know I just mentioned the news stuff, but, like, you'll tell me what's going on won't you? Not right now, of course. I don't expect that, but eventually."
Russia's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. For a long while he didn't answer, instead focusing on the road, on which signs had started to appear. The tic tic tic of the turn signal sounded on and off, hints of civilization trickling by. A phone line here, a sprinkling of houses there, the occasional rickety fence bordering a property sprouting up through the whiteness.
"One day," Russia assured. He reached over and gave America a placating pat on the thigh, followed by the lightest of squeezes. "Now," he brightened. "It is time for shopping."
Gravel hissed and popped beneath the tires as Russia steered the truck into a small parking lot, pulling into a space that was three sizes too small for his mechanical beast. The engine gave a heated sigh as it was shut off.
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