* * * 2 am is not the ideal time to have your rental car break down.
A gang-infested district of a big city is not the best location for such a breakdown to occur. Especially when one is driving one of the most sought after models of the year.
America grumbled as he flipped his cell phone shut. Being late was going to get him yelled at again. England just might understand that the flight delay from the east coast, but not the car (A reliable model usually, however not tonight), the shortcut he'd taken to try and get to the hotel a little closer to on time,or the fact that Alfred hadn't called him to let him know that things were following Mr. Murphy's law tonight.
The truth was, after the call to the rental company, his cell had snapped right into line with the laws that were in force. The battery died without a warning squawk.
At least the rental company knew where he was, and had promised to do something about this little problem.
Alfred stepped out of the car, intent on getting into his luggage, and the cell charger that he somehow remembered packing in his duffel bag. If the battery in the car wasn't dead, he'd at least be able to have a way to let Arthur know what was going on-- and despite the reputation of this area of town, everything seemed quiet enough.
The trunk popped noiselessly, and Alfred bent to rummage through his bag, swearing as his phone slipped out of his hand, and clattered to the pavement.
That was why he missed the sound of footsteps on the broken pavement, until the gun was shoved into his ribs.
“Hand over your keys, prettyboy, and I'll let you walk out of this.”
Great. “If you're looking to steal a ride, you might want to find one that works.” Alfred could overpower the kid-- no problem. The gun, however might be a problem. Well. He'd taken bullets before-- but it hurt like crazy, and while it wouldn't kill him, he really didn't want deal with that. Not tonight.
“Fuck that. I should just cap your dumb ass right now. You think I'm stupid.”
“Pretty much,” Alfred said with a quick jab to where he now knew the thief's ribs were. If he were lucky, the kid would end up with a couple of broken ribs, and a lick of common sense.
“What the hell--” The gun went off, shattering a taillight.
The conversation went downhill from there, as the thief, not gaining any smarts from blow that had thrown his aim off pulled the trigger again, even as he was staggering backwards from said blow.
Shit. Alfred hadn't counted on that.
In the slow motion that this alley had become, America saw red splattering against his glasses before he felt the burning white hot pain in his throat.
Arthur's going to be so pissed off. The random thought hit him as darkness started creeping up on him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't-- stand. Falling to his knees, to the pavement, as the ground turned blackish red in the halogen street lights.
The dead cellphone mocked him from a few inches away, while he fought for oxygen, to move, to see through blood-spattered and crooked glasses.
“I told you, fucker.” The face of the teenager that had just shot him was hardened. Angry. Unbalanced. He was coming closer, menacing-- but Alfred couldn't move.
And then more pain-- something striking him. The man shouted something more, but in the eddies of the tides of unconsciousness, the words were lost.
Re: Murphy's Law 2/3
anonymous
August 9 2010, 13:29:43 UTC
Blast that idiot and his habitual lateness. Arthur grumbled, awakened by the mobile on his nightstand. Two in the morning, local time, and Alfred should have been there before midnight. Did he think that England was going to wait up for him? Hardly. They could bloody well talk in the morning.
“Hello, this is the Airport Rental company,” the far too chipper for the wee hours of the morning voice told him in a rush, “I'm calling for Mr. Jones. This is his alternate number--”
“He's not here.” Alternate number? Hopefully this wasn't a trend. Arthur did NOT appreciate the interruption of his sleep to become a message service. “What do you want him for?”
“Oh.” The voice had lost a bit of cheer. Which suited Arthur perfectly. “I found out that our towing service won't go into the Gray Valley area at this hour because of past gang-related hijackings-- but he's not responding to his phone. I need to know if he wants me to try and get a cab for him.”
“What the hell...” Arthur blinked as 'Gang Related Hijackings' registered, and woke him up completely. Alfred was a big boy though, and strong as a herd of oxen. “Where is he? I'll go pick him up.”
“Sir, it's a dangerous area. I'm sure we can find someone-”
“Give me the damned address already.” What was this fear creeping up his spine? He snagged his trousers, and pistol, snapping it into the holster. Strong, yes, but sometimes Alfred could be fucking dim.
Arthur was out the door and down the stairs before the clerk could finish telling him the intersection. In a cab before he could change his mind, and return to the hotel room to pace until Alfred showed up all apologetic and tired.
Because that was what was going to happen, right?
The boy was rubbing off on him, if he was thinking that way, Arthur realized, as he convinced the gentleman driving that, yes, he really did want to go to that address.
The red car was sitting where the friendly voice had told him it would be, and Arthur could see that the trunk was wide open.
Shit.
There was a figure behind the car, moving back and forth. Arthur could hear yelling, but couldn't make out the words. That was not Alfred.
The cabdriver pulled to the curb, and refused to get any closer than a block. As soon as Arthur stepped out, the man laid rubber-- which didn't even make the figure look up, so absorbed in his little dance. Step. Kick. Yell. Kick. Kick--
There was something-- someone-- on the ground behind the car. Arthur's heart dropped as he pulled his weapon. Alfred-- it had to be. But why wasn't he fighting back? One single human shouldn't be able to--
A flash of light highlighted the gun in the stranger's hand as he brought it down to point at the heap behind the car.
“Don't move.” Arthur used the other edge of the car as cover. “Drop your weapon.”
“You want somma this too?” The weapon was kept pointed at the downed man-- Arthur could see a flash of blond hair, ruffled by a slight breeze. He wasn't moving. “I'll get to you after I finish prettyboy here. Don't think he's so pretty now...”
The maniacal grin wasn't natural.
“Leave him alone.” Arthur cocked the pistol, “Drop. Your. Weapon.”
“Why? He's practically dead already. I'm just making sure--” Bloody hell. No.
It might not kill America, England reasoned, it would just cripple him severely for months-- however, considering the political situation there really was no choice.
He took the shot.
The man staggered back from the force of impact, and giggled.
A crackhead. He was feeling no pain-- however the gun was still in his hand, still pointed downwards at the vulnerable man.
Fuck.
Arthur aimed for the head this time, even as the man tossed another kick at the still figure. No fucking crackheaded punk was going to fucking try to kill America. His Alfred.
Re: Murphy's Law 2b/3
anonymous
August 9 2010, 13:30:42 UTC
Blood pooled around his head, coated his dress shirt, sluggishly bubbling from a gaping wound in his throat. Air wheezed softly from the hole.
It's fucking bad.
His eyes were closed behind cracked glasses, cheeks scraped, and showing the beginnings of bruises. The jaw was in position that made it obvious that it was broken.
And these were just the visible injuries.
If he'd been human, he would most likely be dead right now.
One hand reached to lightly touch the battered face, and was rewarded with a flickering of eyelashes. The pure blue gaze was glazed with injury and something resembling fear that melted away as he leaned close enough for Alfred to see him.
“Shh. Don't move. It's over.” Arthur told him softly. The barest hint of a smile crossed bleeding lips that moved in unvoiced words.
'Sorry for being late.'
The eyes fluttered closed again.
England swallowed the emotion that made him want to just rage at the one who had marred his boy. But that man had a bullet in his head, and this man needed the kind of help that one small nation couldn't give.
Arthur flipped out his mobile, and made the necessary calls, then sat next to Alfred. A gentle hand stroked the boy's forehead, while the other clutched the gun, aware of every sound in the vicinity. He had enough ammunition left-- and this time he wouldn't hesitate.
God help anyone else who tried to mess with England tonight.
Re: Murphy's Law 2b/3
anonymous
August 9 2010, 16:18:50 UTC
Jesus, anon. D: I really like all the realistically inane thoughts that go through Alfred's head, and the suspense is certainly killing me, but that last line? Dear god, that line really resonates. I tried to avoid phrasing this way, but ... I pity the fool who even looks wrong at America tonight. XD;
Re: Murphy's Law 2b/3
anonymous
August 12 2010, 17:19:24 UTC
In a situation like that, little inane thoughts are probably the mind's way to keep itself from completely freaking out. Know I've experienced it in a wreck, bleeding and broken limb, wondering where my friend was parked, and wondering how I was going to make it to work the next day.
(Hoping that's a 'Jesus, anon. D:' in a good way. :D)
Re: Murphy's Law 2b/3
anonymous
August 10 2010, 06:09:31 UTC
Oh shit son, I now have a hard-on for England-with-a-gun like you wouldn't believe. omg he shot him in the throat ew ew ew ... Is there even official first aid for that? 'Cause they would aspirate and you can't even put pressure on it in the field and ... why why why ew T_T
Re: Murphy's Law 2b/3
anonymous
August 12 2010, 17:25:18 UTC
The boy could easily swing around a buffalo about 20 times his size when he was very young. Combine that with actual combat experience, and the realization that he's not someone that can be taken down by one normal person that easily just kinda smacks you between the eyes. It had to be brutal, serious, and take him without warning, otherwise it'd be the optimistic ending that England was kinda hoping for-- with the addition of a little dirt, sweat, and scuffing that come along with a minor fight in the streets. I'm glad you liked it though. :)
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=44841309#t44841309
Hope this is close to what OP wanted. Couldn't quite get kidnapping in there.
* * *
2 am is not the ideal time to have your rental car break down.
A gang-infested district of a big city is not the best location for such a breakdown to occur. Especially when one is driving one of the most sought after models of the year.
America grumbled as he flipped his cell phone shut. Being late was going to get him yelled at again. England just might understand that the flight delay from the east coast, but not the car (A reliable model usually, however not tonight), the shortcut he'd taken to try and get to the hotel a little closer to on time,or the fact that Alfred hadn't called him to let him know that things were following Mr. Murphy's law tonight.
The truth was, after the call to the rental company, his cell had snapped right into line with the laws that were in force. The battery died without a warning squawk.
At least the rental company knew where he was, and had promised to do something about this little problem.
Alfred stepped out of the car, intent on getting into his luggage, and the cell charger that he somehow remembered packing in his duffel bag. If the battery in the car wasn't dead, he'd at least be able to have a way to let Arthur know what was going on-- and despite the reputation of this area of town, everything seemed quiet enough.
The trunk popped noiselessly, and Alfred bent to rummage through his bag, swearing as his phone slipped out of his hand, and clattered to the pavement.
That was why he missed the sound of footsteps on the broken pavement, until the gun was shoved into his ribs.
“Hand over your keys, prettyboy, and I'll let you walk out of this.”
Great. “If you're looking to steal a ride, you might want to find one that works.” Alfred could overpower the kid-- no problem. The gun, however might be a problem. Well. He'd taken bullets before-- but it hurt like crazy, and while it wouldn't kill him, he really didn't want deal with that. Not tonight.
“Fuck that. I should just cap your dumb ass right now. You think I'm stupid.”
“Pretty much,” Alfred said with a quick jab to where he now knew the thief's ribs were. If he were lucky, the kid would end up with a couple of broken ribs, and a lick of common sense.
“What the hell--” The gun went off, shattering a taillight.
The conversation went downhill from there, as the thief, not gaining any smarts from blow that had thrown his aim off pulled the trigger again, even as he was staggering backwards from said blow.
Shit. Alfred hadn't counted on that.
In the slow motion that this alley had become, America saw red splattering against his glasses before he felt the burning white hot pain in his throat.
Arthur's going to be so pissed off. The random thought hit him as darkness started creeping up on him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't-- stand. Falling to his knees, to the pavement, as the ground turned blackish red in the halogen street lights.
The dead cellphone mocked him from a few inches away, while he fought for oxygen, to move, to see through blood-spattered and crooked glasses.
“I told you, fucker.” The face of the teenager that had just shot him was hardened. Angry. Unbalanced. He was coming closer, menacing-- but Alfred couldn't move.
And then more pain-- something striking him. The man shouted something more, but in the eddies of the tides of unconsciousness, the words were lost.
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“Hello, this is the Airport Rental company,” the far too chipper for the wee hours of the morning voice told him in a rush, “I'm calling for Mr. Jones. This is his alternate number--”
“He's not here.” Alternate number? Hopefully this wasn't a trend. Arthur did NOT appreciate the interruption of his sleep to become a message service. “What do you want him for?”
“Oh.” The voice had lost a bit of cheer. Which suited Arthur perfectly. “I found out that our towing service won't go into the Gray Valley area at this hour because of past gang-related hijackings-- but he's not responding to his phone. I need to know if he wants me to try and get a cab for him.”
“What the hell...” Arthur blinked as 'Gang Related Hijackings' registered, and woke him up completely. Alfred was a big boy though, and strong as a herd of oxen. “Where is he? I'll go pick him up.”
“Sir, it's a dangerous area. I'm sure we can find someone-”
“Give me the damned address already.” What was this fear creeping up his spine? He snagged his trousers, and pistol, snapping it into the holster. Strong, yes, but sometimes Alfred could be fucking dim.
Arthur was out the door and down the stairs before the clerk could finish telling him the intersection. In a cab before he could change his mind, and return to the hotel room to pace until Alfred showed up all apologetic and tired.
Because that was what was going to happen, right?
The boy was rubbing off on him, if he was thinking that way, Arthur realized, as he convinced the gentleman driving that, yes, he really did want to go to that address.
The red car was sitting where the friendly voice had told him it would be, and Arthur could see that the trunk was wide open.
Shit.
There was a figure behind the car, moving back and forth. Arthur could hear yelling, but couldn't make out the words. That was not Alfred.
The cabdriver pulled to the curb, and refused to get any closer than a block. As soon as Arthur stepped out, the man laid rubber-- which didn't even make the figure look up, so absorbed in his little dance. Step. Kick. Yell. Kick. Kick--
There was something-- someone-- on the ground behind the car. Arthur's heart dropped as he pulled his weapon. Alfred-- it had to be. But why wasn't he fighting back? One single human shouldn't be able to--
A flash of light highlighted the gun in the stranger's hand as he brought it down to point at the heap behind the car.
“Don't move.” Arthur used the other edge of the car as cover. “Drop your weapon.”
“You want somma this too?” The weapon was kept pointed at the downed man-- Arthur could see a flash of blond hair, ruffled by a slight breeze. He wasn't moving. “I'll get to you after I finish prettyboy here. Don't think he's so pretty now...”
The maniacal grin wasn't natural.
“Leave him alone.” Arthur cocked the pistol, “Drop. Your. Weapon.”
“Why? He's practically dead already. I'm just making sure--” Bloody hell. No.
It might not kill America, England reasoned, it would just cripple him severely for months-- however, considering the political situation there really was no choice.
He took the shot.
The man staggered back from the force of impact, and giggled.
A crackhead. He was feeling no pain-- however the gun was still in his hand, still pointed downwards at the vulnerable man.
Fuck.
Arthur aimed for the head this time, even as the man tossed another kick at the still figure. No fucking crackheaded punk was going to fucking try to kill America. His Alfred.
The assailant dropped, and Arthur ran to Alfred.
How bad.... how bad-- he has to be alive, but--
Reply
Blood pooled around his head, coated his dress shirt, sluggishly bubbling from a gaping wound in his throat. Air wheezed softly from the hole.
It's fucking bad.
His eyes were closed behind cracked glasses, cheeks scraped, and showing the beginnings of bruises. The jaw was in position that made it obvious that it was broken.
And these were just the visible injuries.
If he'd been human, he would most likely be dead right now.
One hand reached to lightly touch the battered face, and was rewarded with a flickering of eyelashes. The pure blue gaze was glazed with injury and something resembling fear that melted away as he leaned close enough for Alfred to see him.
“Shh. Don't move. It's over.” Arthur told him softly. The barest hint of a smile crossed bleeding lips that moved in unvoiced words.
'Sorry for being late.'
The eyes fluttered closed again.
England swallowed the emotion that made him want to just rage at the one who had marred his boy. But that man had a bullet in his head, and this man needed the kind of help that one small nation couldn't give.
Arthur flipped out his mobile, and made the necessary calls, then sat next to Alfred. A gentle hand stroked the boy's forehead, while the other clutched the gun, aware of every sound in the vicinity. He had enough ammunition left-- and this time he wouldn't hesitate.
God help anyone else who tried to mess with England tonight.
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Know I've experienced it in a wreck, bleeding and broken limb, wondering where my friend was parked, and wondering how I was going to make it to work the next day.
(Hoping that's a 'Jesus, anon. D:' in a good way. :D)
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http://a.imageshack.us/img838/5585/iggygunkink.th.jpg
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http://img838.imageshack.us/i/iggygunkink.jpg/
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Why so fabulous, anon?
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And then later clean them up, ink them, and color them mercilessly. ;D
Thanks.:)
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This is brilliant! Can't wait to see how it continues!
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It had to be brutal, serious, and take him without warning, otherwise it'd be the optimistic ending that England was kinda hoping for-- with the addition of a little dirt, sweat, and scuffing that come along with a minor fight in the streets.
I'm glad you liked it though. :)
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Glad you liked it.:)
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