The Companion [9.9/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:36:15 UTC
America just sat there, staring blankly at the shop front, with its foreign words and drawings of food. Was this really it? Was he about to finally get his chance? He nervously smoothed his coat and petted his hair, trying to tame any wayward strands. His heart fluttered weakly in his chest.
"America?"
"Huh?" America turned to Russia with alert eyes.
"Don't try anything." And with that, Russia slipped out of the car and cut around to America's side, opening the door for him.
America unbuckled himself and followed Russia's lead, hiding shaking hands in his pockets, eyes kept low to the ground. Russia was already expecting him to make a break for it, and his little speeding trick was a stark reminder that his mind was not all together sane. America would have to wait, put Russia at ease before he tried to book it.
Russia grabbed a shopping cart and walked through the sliding glass doors of the store. America half-marveled and half-laughed at the sight. He had never really thought about what Russia looked like as he existed from day to day. He'd had a mental image of him outside of their meetings, yes, but an odd one, one inspired by too many science fiction novels and horror movies.
His mental image had never contained Russia in pajamas, or Russia with soaked hair as he got out of the shower. He imagined Russia simply shut off at night, like a great, unfeeling robot. Once the sun rose, he'd boot back up again and do whatever evil things people like him did. But as America tailed Russia, he didn't see the robot of his mind's eyes.
Instead he saw a simple man, a man too tall for the cart he was pushing along. A man that was shopping to fill his cupboards and nothing more. He moved among the scant few who occupied the aisles with an easy fluidity, as if he were no different from them. It was a far cry from how Russia usually snuck about meetings, like a wolf prowling for the weakest of the flock to pick off.
America cast wary glances at those he passed. He was struck by the notion that they somehow knew how very wrong it was for him to be there. The way he carried himself, the fall of his step, even the way he breathed. They had to be aware of how different he was from them, something instinctual, an innate knowledge they couldn't argue with.
They wouldn't help him. They were on Russia's side. America sighed and sped his gait, careful not to let Russia's back out of his sight. He hadn't been given enough time to plan how he was going to get out of this jam, and it wasn't fair. With the phone he dialed a number, that was foolproof. But in the store, how could he explain his situation?
Any shoppers he talked to wouldn't understand him, or, if they did speak English, would be mighty confused anyway. And then there was Russia. He probably had a silver tongue with her own people, able to convey the most appropriate emotions and beautiful words to explain that, no, this young man hadn't been kidnapped, but was his 'mentally disturbed relative'. And worst of all, that bastard would probably get away with such that excuse for America's behavior.
"You are being awfully quite back there." Russia had stopped moving, instead resting his forearm on the handle of the cart as he watched America.
America halted. "Nothin' to say."
"Well, what would you like to eat?" Russia made a small gesture at the rows of food, the volume of his voice low enough so that others would not hear, but not so much that it was a suspicious whisper. "I did not bring you here to stare at the floor all day."
"I wasn't staring at the floor." America lips set into a thin line. "I was staring at you." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his tongue eager to prove Russia wrong.
Russia's eyes rounded for a split second before he regained his composure. "How very kind of you, but it might be best if you pick your meals."
"America?"
"Huh?" America turned to Russia with alert eyes.
"Don't try anything." And with that, Russia slipped out of the car and cut around to America's side, opening the door for him.
America unbuckled himself and followed Russia's lead, hiding shaking hands in his pockets, eyes kept low to the ground. Russia was already expecting him to make a break for it, and his little speeding trick was a stark reminder that his mind was not all together sane. America would have to wait, put Russia at ease before he tried to book it.
Russia grabbed a shopping cart and walked through the sliding glass doors of the store. America half-marveled and half-laughed at the sight. He had never really thought about what Russia looked like as he existed from day to day. He'd had a mental image of him outside of their meetings, yes, but an odd one, one inspired by too many science fiction novels and horror movies.
His mental image had never contained Russia in pajamas, or Russia with soaked hair as he got out of the shower. He imagined Russia simply shut off at night, like a great, unfeeling robot. Once the sun rose, he'd boot back up again and do whatever evil things people like him did. But as America tailed Russia, he didn't see the robot of his mind's eyes.
Instead he saw a simple man, a man too tall for the cart he was pushing along. A man that was shopping to fill his cupboards and nothing more. He moved among the scant few who occupied the aisles with an easy fluidity, as if he were no different from them. It was a far cry from how Russia usually snuck about meetings, like a wolf prowling for the weakest of the flock to pick off.
America cast wary glances at those he passed. He was struck by the notion that they somehow knew how very wrong it was for him to be there. The way he carried himself, the fall of his step, even the way he breathed. They had to be aware of how different he was from them, something instinctual, an innate knowledge they couldn't argue with.
They wouldn't help him. They were on Russia's side. America sighed and sped his gait, careful not to let Russia's back out of his sight. He hadn't been given enough time to plan how he was going to get out of this jam, and it wasn't fair. With the phone he dialed a number, that was foolproof. But in the store, how could he explain his situation?
Any shoppers he talked to wouldn't understand him, or, if they did speak English, would be mighty confused anyway. And then there was Russia. He probably had a silver tongue with her own people, able to convey the most appropriate emotions and beautiful words to explain that, no, this young man hadn't been kidnapped, but was his 'mentally disturbed relative'. And worst of all, that bastard would probably get away with such that excuse for America's behavior.
"You are being awfully quite back there." Russia had stopped moving, instead resting his forearm on the handle of the cart as he watched America.
America halted. "Nothin' to say."
"Well, what would you like to eat?" Russia made a small gesture at the rows of food, the volume of his voice low enough so that others would not hear, but not so much that it was a suspicious whisper. "I did not bring you here to stare at the floor all day."
"I wasn't staring at the floor." America lips set into a thin line. "I was staring at you." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his tongue eager to prove Russia wrong.
Russia's eyes rounded for a split second before he regained his composure. "How very kind of you, but it might be best if you pick your meals."
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