Blue Lips 5
anonymous
November 28 2010, 05:17:00 UTC
A blur of black and yellow caught the Russian’s eyes and as he avoided slipping along a thick patch of ice. Two firefighters yelled and pointed to the ditch below. They pointed past where the guardrail lay mangled and dangling- where the shadows blanketed everything in the dip. A lick of blaze showed a scattered graveyard of car parts. As Russia neared the blaze and where the emergency cars sat, he looked up at the top where his car was parked and then down to where the trailer was burning.
…It wasn’t possible…
Stilling, listening to the flames crackle and the shouts of men, Russia walked to the side, ignoring the motions of several workers that he should move away and not come any closer. The wind sent a bitter gale, causing everything to shudder in the firelight. The lights of the cars outlined the shapes of what looked to be severed metal littering the snow, half covered in the white drifts. Another step, now feeling the caustic heat of the burning truck, Russia watched a man trudge up from the other side of the ditch, waving wildly towards other rescuers.
Russia stepped into the snow, looking down as the wind tugged frostily at his coat and scarf. Down in the ditch, lying on its hood was a car-its glass shattered out and twinkling in the light above. The metal was crushed and dented with the hood lying it what seemed to be an iced over creek. The water seemed to be flowing into the car, joining and melting in the snow coating the twisted metal.
There was a crack, and out of the corner of his eye, Russia watched as the emergency rescuers jumped away from the truck, the flames growing larger for a brief moment. Russia simply glanced coldly at it.
Continuing to trudge down the snow bank, ignoring the cries of ‘Ostanovisy!’ from the men on the road above, the blond haired man began to quicken his pace. That couldn’t be America’s car. America could not be hurt. The Russian may have loved to play mind tricks or confront the other energetic man, but he didn’t want to see the blue eyed man dying in the twisted and tossed car.
There was a difference between wanting to see America hurt and crumbling, and seeing Alfred hurt and broken. Alfred could not be broken…and…
Kolkolkol.
He finally came to the wreckage, and could have looked at every dent for hours at the mangled car. However, his eyes were trained on seeing who was inside. If the Russian’s gut feeling was true, it was Alfred he would glimpse. But why hadn’t little America freed himself? He was stronger then Ivan- ripping a car door off should be easy for him.
Two men, dressed in yellow and black and wearing a firefighter's suit suddenly looked up from the car as Russia stopped. When they tried to order him away, he glanced at them with a narrow gaze, saccharine smile asking if anything was wrong. One gulped and turned back to what he was trying to do.
With what seemed to be a set of overly large hydraulic pliers, one of the burlier men seemed to be trying to cut into the door.It was taking too long. Russia knelt down into the thick snow, hearing it crinkle under his weight and glanced into the window. A tuft of gold hair smeared red was all he needed to see before he shot back up to his height, taking one breath of the frigid night air and muttering pleasantly, “Move.”
A blur of black and yellow caught the Russian’s eyes and as he avoided slipping along a thick patch of ice. Two firefighters yelled and pointed to the ditch below. They pointed past where the guardrail lay mangled and dangling- where the shadows blanketed everything in the dip. A lick of blaze showed a scattered graveyard of car parts. As Russia neared the blaze and where the emergency cars sat, he looked up at the top where his car was parked and then down to where the trailer was burning.
…It wasn’t possible…
Stilling, listening to the flames crackle and the shouts of men, Russia walked to the side, ignoring the motions of several workers that he should move away and not come any closer. The wind sent a bitter gale, causing everything to shudder in the firelight. The lights of the cars outlined the shapes of what looked to be severed metal littering the snow, half covered in the white drifts. Another step, now feeling the caustic heat of the burning truck, Russia watched a man trudge up from the other side of the ditch, waving wildly towards other rescuers.
Russia stepped into the snow, looking down as the wind tugged frostily at his coat and scarf. Down in the ditch, lying on its hood was a car-its glass shattered out and twinkling in the light above. The metal was crushed and dented with the hood lying it what seemed to be an iced over creek. The water seemed to be flowing into the car, joining and melting in the snow coating the twisted metal.
There was a crack, and out of the corner of his eye, Russia watched as the emergency rescuers jumped away from the truck, the flames growing larger for a brief moment. Russia simply glanced coldly at it.
Continuing to trudge down the snow bank, ignoring the cries of ‘Ostanovisy!’ from the men on the road above, the blond haired man began to quicken his pace. That couldn’t be America’s car. America could not be hurt. The Russian may have loved to play mind tricks or confront the other energetic man, but he didn’t want to see the blue eyed man dying in the twisted and tossed car.
There was a difference between wanting to see America hurt and crumbling, and seeing Alfred hurt and broken. Alfred could not be broken…and…
Kolkolkol.
He finally came to the wreckage, and could have looked at every dent for hours at the mangled car. However, his eyes were trained on seeing who was inside. If the Russian’s gut feeling was true, it was Alfred he would glimpse. But why hadn’t little America freed himself? He was stronger then Ivan- ripping a car door off should be easy for him.
Two men, dressed in yellow and black and wearing a firefighter's suit suddenly looked up from the car as Russia stopped. When they tried to order him away, he glanced at them with a narrow gaze, saccharine smile asking if anything was wrong. One gulped and turned back to what he was trying to do.
With what seemed to be a set of overly large hydraulic pliers, one of the burlier men seemed to be trying to cut into the door.It was taking too long. Russia knelt down into the thick snow, hearing it crinkle under his weight and glanced into the window. A tuft of gold hair smeared red was all he needed to see before he shot back up to his height, taking one breath of the frigid night air and muttering pleasantly, “Move.”
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