If You'd Kill For Them, They're Family [3]
Title: If You'd Kill For Them, They're Family - Part 3
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 2,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: N.Italy, England, America. Implied Germany/Italy.
Premise: Mafiatalia goes to talk to America about Marshall Plan aid repayment.
Time period: 1953
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Lolhistoryness: 6/10. It might help to know that Bonn was the capital of West Germany during the Allied occupation, and that the London Debts Agreement, which passed in 1953, did in fact reduce the amount of Marshall Plan aid Germany was expected to repay.
Violence: 7/10
Would I like it?: It's longer and more depressing than parts 1 and 2, and maybe a little less violent, but otherwise it's more of the same.
They had very different reactions to the sight of Feliciano Vargas in a razor sharp grey suit, strolling towards them as they cleaned their sidearms in the officer outpost on the streets of Bonn.
England's eyes flicked over him once, then dropped back to the table. He cracked his Webley revolver and plucked the cleaning rod from America's side of the table. "What's he want," he muttered.
America's eyes went from the cleaning rod, to England's face, to Italy, now ten meters away and closing. He blanched. His hand went to his hip, as if he'd forgotten that his Colt was half dismantled on the table in front of them.
England blinked passively. "What?"
"Fuck," America sighed. Then, hopefully, "You're not carrying any other guns, like, hidden, are you?"
"What do you think I am, you?"
"Englaaaand! Americaaa!" Italy waved his cigar cheerfully and came to a stop at the foot of the table. "What're you doing?"
America looked to England, who was just looking back at him with an expression of faint curiosity. No help there. He turned his biggest smile onto Italy, but it felt tight and stiff around the edges. "We're just on patrol. Well, we were. Now we're taking a break. But we weren't really doing anything, I mean...not like, anything specific." Fuck, he sounded like Poland. "Uh...how're you?"
Italy beamed. "I'm good! It's a beautiful day. There's a man down on the corner--did you see?--who's painting a picture of the Minster. That's Italian architecture! And he's doing portraits, too! I watched him draw a little girl, and a young couple, and an old couple, and--"
"Can we help you?" England interrupted. He set down his revolver.
"Oh, ah, yes! I wanted to talk to you, is that okay?" he flicked his cigar. The ashes were caught by a late autumn breeze and blew into America's pant leg. He brushed them off hastily.
America felt England studying him. He flushed deeper. "Um, yeah, go right ahead. We can talk!"
Italy took a drag and rest his other arm around America's shoulders. "Somewhere in private, si?"
"I didn't know we had any business," America returned uneasily.
Italy scrunched up his face in thought. "Non attualmente," he granted, "But, I am doing a favor for a friend?"
"A friend," America echoed weakly.
Italy nodded energetically. "And I was hoping that you could help me with it!"
America squirmed under Italy's kilowatt smile and England's slightly furrowed brow. "Uh, well...I thought, since we were all paid up..."
Italy's fingertips dug into America's shoulder. "It would really mean a lot to me," he said with feeling.
England wet his lips and spoke up. "What the devil is going on?"
America cringed and lowered his voice a notch. "Okay, but...just me, right?"
"Aah...?" Italy turned to England with a glassy-eyed, sun-glazed look. "Mm, okay! We don't have to bother England. He looks like he's busy with that snappy-open gun-thing. Germany always yells at me when I just walk away while I'm cleaning things to have a nap or eat some pasta." He leaned forward and covered America's dismantled Colt .45 with his hand, his cigar pinned between his first and second fingers. A savory curl of smoke climbed to the cloth awning and lazily stretched out across it. "America can come back to what he was doing later, corretto?"
America nodded miserably and climbed out of the bench. England sat back and looked between them. "America? What's--"
"Everything's fine," America replied hastily. "Just...everything's fine, all right?"
***
Italy took him to an Italian-owned butcher shop. He chattered pleasantly the whole walk, while America's smile turned progressively greener. When they arrived, he surrendered his coat, and submitted to a pat-down from two hulking Mediterraneans who could have cracked shell casings with their jaws. Then they stuck him in the tiny back office and left him there for a while. The room stank like wet paper and the air was thick as whipped cream with cheap cigarette smoke.
America shifted uncomfortably in the creaking wooden chair and tapped arrhythmatically on the surface of the desk until Italy came in with one of his submachine gun-toting goons more than an hour later.
"Ahh, thank you for being so patient, America!" Italy greeted him. "I had a couple of other things to take care of, but I'm all yours now!" His button man cut through the smoke and went to stand behind America. America grit his teeth and tried to ignore him. "I had just had some, some worries?"
"What are you worried about?"
Italy leaned forward and braced his hands on the desk. He smiled down at America and his curl fell across his cheek. "It's Germany. I'm worried that he's not eating enough."
It never even occurred to America to not take him seriously. "I'm doing everything I can. The Marshall Plan was extended to include him back in '48."
A petite grimace marred Italy's cherubic face. "Ahh, but, America! You Allied Occupation Forces are charging Germany to occupy his territory. That alone almost offsets the Marshall Plan money! Plus you took all his patents away. Plus, you cut down most of his forests. Plus you only stopped dismantling his factories two years ago, remember? Plus you expect him to pay you back for all that aid! How can Germany pay you back when you've made it so hard for him to make money?"
"I can't believe you're scolding me about unfair lending terms," America muttered.
Italy pretended he hadn't heard him. "I just want a more generous repayment plan for Germany. I think that would be nice for him. Don't you agree? And it would really mean a lot to me if you would do something nice for mi famiglia."
"He's not--he's German, how can he be a part of the--" America pushed up his glasses and sat up straighter.
Italy smiled. "Oh, no, he's not part of cosa nostra. Germany is just...Germany is very important to me. Like family, you know?"
Well, shit. "So what do you want? He has to pay back the loans eventually. I can't just let him off like England or France."
Italy had a look of surprised hurt. "I wouldn't ask you to just forgive the loans, America. That's just not good business."
Something in his chest unclenched a little. "Well, then--"
"I was just thinking, mm, half?"
He jerked upright. "Half! You want me to just forgive--"
"Ah, ah, but I'm forgiving you for so many mean things that you've done to Germany! Isn't it only fair?" He pouted. "But, all right. I'll let you think about it, okay?"
Italy left. His button man stayed.
***
Night came, and darkness sank through the high, square window and pooled in every corner, pressing up against the sickly, flickering light from the solitary banker's lamp on the butcher's desk. America was thirsty. And hungry. And he had to piss. Every so often he pestered Italy's knuckle-dragging friend for better treatment, but the mafioso didn't say anything and America didn't really expect him to.
Something heavy struck the door, and America jerked to his feet. A man was thrown in, followed by another well-tailored goon. His hands were lashed behind his back. He stumbled and dropped to his knees. He had a sack over his head, but his 'escort' yanked it off when he hit the floor.
"--And I'll cut your fucking bollocks out!" England shouted. He tried to lurch to his feet, and got the stock of a Beretta 38 across the jaw for it. "You can't just abduct a country off the street! When the Allied--America!" he wiped a trickle of blood from a split lip on his shoulder. "What the hell is going on around here? Let's--"
America moved to help him up, and his own guard slammed the muzzle of his gun into his back. He staggered into the desk and shot a homicidal glare over his shoulder which impressed no one. His hands tightened. "England--"
"--Get over here and bloody untie me, then we can--"
"--England--"
"--Thrash these little tits and you can explain to me just how the hell that curly-haired buffoon got the better of--Get that gun out of my face, you wouldn't dare--"
"England shut up, for Christ's sakes!"
In the ringing silence that followed, Italy wandered into the room, flanked by two more guards. They passed between the Allies and took up a position at the front of the room.
England looked in utter bewilderment from America to Italy. "What on Earth has gotten into you?" he demanded. "It's just Italy."
"It's not just Italy." America's voice cracked. "Haven't you read about the mafia in the papers? Cosa Nostra? Al Capone? Any of that?"
England peered at him. He had a rich black eye already. "Wasn't that some business from when you tried to quit drinking back in the twenties?"
America felt sick to his stomach. Italy listened avidly, a quirk of a smile on his lips. "He...he would dare, okay?" he managed, and slumped back into the creaky wooden chair. "This side of Italy...this side of Italy...I've known about this for, uh, a while."
England stared at him with an expression of incredulous disdain. "Why didn't you tell anybody?" he demanded.
"Because he's been bribing me and blackmailing me not to!" he wailed.
"You short-sighted, idiotic little--"
"So, America!" Italy clapped his hands. "I think now would be a good time to keep talking about Germany's loans."
America's gaze flew from Italy back to England. He went white. "Oh, don't," he heard himself say. "Please, don't."
"Don't what?" Italy asked, wide-eyed. He reached into his jacket and drew a glossy black pistol. England stared at him, a submachine gun pressed to the back of his neck, like he still couldn't quite believe this was happening.
"Do this?" Italy turned to England and smashed the gun across the bridge of his nose. As he buckled forward, Italy sang, "Maybe this?" and clouted him upside the ear. England made a wretched sound through clenched teeth.
America lunged forward, across the desk. Italy whipped around and nearly forced the barrel of his little black Beretta between America's teeth. A moment later, the three made men who weren't keeping England pinned under a trigger wrestled him flat over the desk, his arms at his sides. Italy gripped his jaw as he twitched in impotent rage, and forced two inches of the gun into America's mouth.
"You want I should just blow your fucking teeth out?" he inquired agreeably. "Or maybe shoot out his knees? I can do that, tu pezzo di merda, but it won't help my friend. I just want to do business. Business, it's about trading things we want, right? I want half of Germany's loans to be forgiven." He jammed the gun a little deeper, and America heard a deep, underwater click as a tooth chipped. "And America wants England to walk out of here alive."
He drew the gun out. America's jaw throbbed. He spat blood and managed, "We're talking about...seven hundred fucking million dollars. More than that."
"Seven hundred million?" Italy wondered, as if the number had only just struck him. He wandered around to the back of the desk, where America, his cheek pressed to the surface and a gun in his ear, couldn't see. "Seven hundred million is a lot, you're right!" He heard the top drawer roll open and press into his diaphragm. He jerked his fingers up, but the button man pinning his arms just shoved his hands down. Italy threw the drawer shut on his fingers.
He tried to stay silent, the way England had, but a pathetic sound-- "Nnnghh--" --made it past his teeth anyway.
Italy pulled open the drawer and slammed it shut twice more. By the time he ambled back to England and jerked the island nation's head up by the hair, America had four broken fingers on each hand, and he sucked in air through his nose and out through his teeth like a wounded animal.
"Do you think your life is worth seven hundred million dollars?" Italy smiled down into England's face.
"Eat shit," England replied.
Italy flicked the spit-slick barrel of the gun into England's throat. England gagged and yanked against Italy's hold on his hair. Italy released him, then clubbed him three times around the head. He finished with a savage kick in the groin, and England dropped onto his side like a sack of flour.
Italy knelt beside him and ran his fingers through his hair. He returned to America, his glasses askew, still panting, and wiped England's blood across his lips.
"You son of a bitch!" America cried. He struggled to rise and was slammed back into the desk.
"It can stop when you want it to," Italy told him. he frowned. "No? Siete sicuro? Ah, you are sure? I might have hit him in the head pretty hard. He might need a hospital." America was speechless. Italy sighed and shrugged. "Okay, if that's how America feels." He holstered his pistol and took one of his subordinates' MAB 38s by the barrel. It had a wide, heavy oak stock. He wound up by England's head like he was about to tee off at the links.
"Stop!" America shouted. "Fine, Jesus Christ, whatever you want, just...fucking stop."
Italy lowered the machine gun and smiled. "I knew America cared about his friends. Just like I care about mi famiglia."
America slumped against the desk, trembling.
Italy gestured to the men holding him down. "It's okay, mi soldati, you can let him up. I trust America to keep his word."
He was free all at once. He regained his feet, twitching and shaking, and stumbled to where England lay. He knelt beside the other man and touched his shoulder gingerly. England made no response.
"You will take care of the details, si? And I know you won't tell anyone. Or you know what happens!" That was said so cheerfully that America's hands closed into fists before he even registered the pain from his fingers. Italy let his button men precede him, then paused by the door, all smiles. "And convince England not to say anything too! Otherwise..."
America nodded numbly. The door clicked shut.
He touched his ally's shoulder again. This time the other man gave a small, irrepressible shudder. Something in America's chest ached. "England," he whispered.
Continue to Part 4.
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 2,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: N.Italy, England, America. Implied Germany/Italy.
Premise: Mafiatalia goes to talk to America about Marshall Plan aid repayment.
Time period: 1953
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Lolhistoryness: 6/10. It might help to know that Bonn was the capital of West Germany during the Allied occupation, and that the London Debts Agreement, which passed in 1953, did in fact reduce the amount of Marshall Plan aid Germany was expected to repay.
Violence: 7/10
Would I like it?: It's longer and more depressing than parts 1 and 2, and maybe a little less violent, but otherwise it's more of the same.
They had very different reactions to the sight of Feliciano Vargas in a razor sharp grey suit, strolling towards them as they cleaned their sidearms in the officer outpost on the streets of Bonn.
England's eyes flicked over him once, then dropped back to the table. He cracked his Webley revolver and plucked the cleaning rod from America's side of the table. "What's he want," he muttered.
America's eyes went from the cleaning rod, to England's face, to Italy, now ten meters away and closing. He blanched. His hand went to his hip, as if he'd forgotten that his Colt was half dismantled on the table in front of them.
England blinked passively. "What?"
"Fuck," America sighed. Then, hopefully, "You're not carrying any other guns, like, hidden, are you?"
"What do you think I am, you?"
"Englaaaand! Americaaa!" Italy waved his cigar cheerfully and came to a stop at the foot of the table. "What're you doing?"
America looked to England, who was just looking back at him with an expression of faint curiosity. No help there. He turned his biggest smile onto Italy, but it felt tight and stiff around the edges. "We're just on patrol. Well, we were. Now we're taking a break. But we weren't really doing anything, I mean...not like, anything specific." Fuck, he sounded like Poland. "Uh...how're you?"
Italy beamed. "I'm good! It's a beautiful day. There's a man down on the corner--did you see?--who's painting a picture of the Minster. That's Italian architecture! And he's doing portraits, too! I watched him draw a little girl, and a young couple, and an old couple, and--"
"Can we help you?" England interrupted. He set down his revolver.
"Oh, ah, yes! I wanted to talk to you, is that okay?" he flicked his cigar. The ashes were caught by a late autumn breeze and blew into America's pant leg. He brushed them off hastily.
America felt England studying him. He flushed deeper. "Um, yeah, go right ahead. We can talk!"
Italy took a drag and rest his other arm around America's shoulders. "Somewhere in private, si?"
"I didn't know we had any business," America returned uneasily.
Italy scrunched up his face in thought. "Non attualmente," he granted, "But, I am doing a favor for a friend?"
"A friend," America echoed weakly.
Italy nodded energetically. "And I was hoping that you could help me with it!"
America squirmed under Italy's kilowatt smile and England's slightly furrowed brow. "Uh, well...I thought, since we were all paid up..."
Italy's fingertips dug into America's shoulder. "It would really mean a lot to me," he said with feeling.
England wet his lips and spoke up. "What the devil is going on?"
America cringed and lowered his voice a notch. "Okay, but...just me, right?"
"Aah...?" Italy turned to England with a glassy-eyed, sun-glazed look. "Mm, okay! We don't have to bother England. He looks like he's busy with that snappy-open gun-thing. Germany always yells at me when I just walk away while I'm cleaning things to have a nap or eat some pasta." He leaned forward and covered America's dismantled Colt .45 with his hand, his cigar pinned between his first and second fingers. A savory curl of smoke climbed to the cloth awning and lazily stretched out across it. "America can come back to what he was doing later, corretto?"
America nodded miserably and climbed out of the bench. England sat back and looked between them. "America? What's--"
"Everything's fine," America replied hastily. "Just...everything's fine, all right?"
***
Italy took him to an Italian-owned butcher shop. He chattered pleasantly the whole walk, while America's smile turned progressively greener. When they arrived, he surrendered his coat, and submitted to a pat-down from two hulking Mediterraneans who could have cracked shell casings with their jaws. Then they stuck him in the tiny back office and left him there for a while. The room stank like wet paper and the air was thick as whipped cream with cheap cigarette smoke.
America shifted uncomfortably in the creaking wooden chair and tapped arrhythmatically on the surface of the desk until Italy came in with one of his submachine gun-toting goons more than an hour later.
"Ahh, thank you for being so patient, America!" Italy greeted him. "I had a couple of other things to take care of, but I'm all yours now!" His button man cut through the smoke and went to stand behind America. America grit his teeth and tried to ignore him. "I had just had some, some worries?"
"What are you worried about?"
Italy leaned forward and braced his hands on the desk. He smiled down at America and his curl fell across his cheek. "It's Germany. I'm worried that he's not eating enough."
It never even occurred to America to not take him seriously. "I'm doing everything I can. The Marshall Plan was extended to include him back in '48."
A petite grimace marred Italy's cherubic face. "Ahh, but, America! You Allied Occupation Forces are charging Germany to occupy his territory. That alone almost offsets the Marshall Plan money! Plus you took all his patents away. Plus, you cut down most of his forests. Plus you only stopped dismantling his factories two years ago, remember? Plus you expect him to pay you back for all that aid! How can Germany pay you back when you've made it so hard for him to make money?"
"I can't believe you're scolding me about unfair lending terms," America muttered.
Italy pretended he hadn't heard him. "I just want a more generous repayment plan for Germany. I think that would be nice for him. Don't you agree? And it would really mean a lot to me if you would do something nice for mi famiglia."
"He's not--he's German, how can he be a part of the--" America pushed up his glasses and sat up straighter.
Italy smiled. "Oh, no, he's not part of cosa nostra. Germany is just...Germany is very important to me. Like family, you know?"
Well, shit. "So what do you want? He has to pay back the loans eventually. I can't just let him off like England or France."
Italy had a look of surprised hurt. "I wouldn't ask you to just forgive the loans, America. That's just not good business."
Something in his chest unclenched a little. "Well, then--"
"I was just thinking, mm, half?"
He jerked upright. "Half! You want me to just forgive--"
"Ah, ah, but I'm forgiving you for so many mean things that you've done to Germany! Isn't it only fair?" He pouted. "But, all right. I'll let you think about it, okay?"
Italy left. His button man stayed.
***
Night came, and darkness sank through the high, square window and pooled in every corner, pressing up against the sickly, flickering light from the solitary banker's lamp on the butcher's desk. America was thirsty. And hungry. And he had to piss. Every so often he pestered Italy's knuckle-dragging friend for better treatment, but the mafioso didn't say anything and America didn't really expect him to.
Something heavy struck the door, and America jerked to his feet. A man was thrown in, followed by another well-tailored goon. His hands were lashed behind his back. He stumbled and dropped to his knees. He had a sack over his head, but his 'escort' yanked it off when he hit the floor.
"--And I'll cut your fucking bollocks out!" England shouted. He tried to lurch to his feet, and got the stock of a Beretta 38 across the jaw for it. "You can't just abduct a country off the street! When the Allied--America!" he wiped a trickle of blood from a split lip on his shoulder. "What the hell is going on around here? Let's--"
America moved to help him up, and his own guard slammed the muzzle of his gun into his back. He staggered into the desk and shot a homicidal glare over his shoulder which impressed no one. His hands tightened. "England--"
"--Get over here and bloody untie me, then we can--"
"--England--"
"--Thrash these little tits and you can explain to me just how the hell that curly-haired buffoon got the better of--Get that gun out of my face, you wouldn't dare--"
"England shut up, for Christ's sakes!"
In the ringing silence that followed, Italy wandered into the room, flanked by two more guards. They passed between the Allies and took up a position at the front of the room.
England looked in utter bewilderment from America to Italy. "What on Earth has gotten into you?" he demanded. "It's just Italy."
"It's not just Italy." America's voice cracked. "Haven't you read about the mafia in the papers? Cosa Nostra? Al Capone? Any of that?"
England peered at him. He had a rich black eye already. "Wasn't that some business from when you tried to quit drinking back in the twenties?"
America felt sick to his stomach. Italy listened avidly, a quirk of a smile on his lips. "He...he would dare, okay?" he managed, and slumped back into the creaky wooden chair. "This side of Italy...this side of Italy...I've known about this for, uh, a while."
England stared at him with an expression of incredulous disdain. "Why didn't you tell anybody?" he demanded.
"Because he's been bribing me and blackmailing me not to!" he wailed.
"You short-sighted, idiotic little--"
"So, America!" Italy clapped his hands. "I think now would be a good time to keep talking about Germany's loans."
America's gaze flew from Italy back to England. He went white. "Oh, don't," he heard himself say. "Please, don't."
"Don't what?" Italy asked, wide-eyed. He reached into his jacket and drew a glossy black pistol. England stared at him, a submachine gun pressed to the back of his neck, like he still couldn't quite believe this was happening.
"Do this?" Italy turned to England and smashed the gun across the bridge of his nose. As he buckled forward, Italy sang, "Maybe this?" and clouted him upside the ear. England made a wretched sound through clenched teeth.
America lunged forward, across the desk. Italy whipped around and nearly forced the barrel of his little black Beretta between America's teeth. A moment later, the three made men who weren't keeping England pinned under a trigger wrestled him flat over the desk, his arms at his sides. Italy gripped his jaw as he twitched in impotent rage, and forced two inches of the gun into America's mouth.
"You want I should just blow your fucking teeth out?" he inquired agreeably. "Or maybe shoot out his knees? I can do that, tu pezzo di merda, but it won't help my friend. I just want to do business. Business, it's about trading things we want, right? I want half of Germany's loans to be forgiven." He jammed the gun a little deeper, and America heard a deep, underwater click as a tooth chipped. "And America wants England to walk out of here alive."
He drew the gun out. America's jaw throbbed. He spat blood and managed, "We're talking about...seven hundred fucking million dollars. More than that."
"Seven hundred million?" Italy wondered, as if the number had only just struck him. He wandered around to the back of the desk, where America, his cheek pressed to the surface and a gun in his ear, couldn't see. "Seven hundred million is a lot, you're right!" He heard the top drawer roll open and press into his diaphragm. He jerked his fingers up, but the button man pinning his arms just shoved his hands down. Italy threw the drawer shut on his fingers.
He tried to stay silent, the way England had, but a pathetic sound-- "Nnnghh--" --made it past his teeth anyway.
Italy pulled open the drawer and slammed it shut twice more. By the time he ambled back to England and jerked the island nation's head up by the hair, America had four broken fingers on each hand, and he sucked in air through his nose and out through his teeth like a wounded animal.
"Do you think your life is worth seven hundred million dollars?" Italy smiled down into England's face.
"Eat shit," England replied.
Italy flicked the spit-slick barrel of the gun into England's throat. England gagged and yanked against Italy's hold on his hair. Italy released him, then clubbed him three times around the head. He finished with a savage kick in the groin, and England dropped onto his side like a sack of flour.
Italy knelt beside him and ran his fingers through his hair. He returned to America, his glasses askew, still panting, and wiped England's blood across his lips.
"You son of a bitch!" America cried. He struggled to rise and was slammed back into the desk.
"It can stop when you want it to," Italy told him. he frowned. "No? Siete sicuro? Ah, you are sure? I might have hit him in the head pretty hard. He might need a hospital." America was speechless. Italy sighed and shrugged. "Okay, if that's how America feels." He holstered his pistol and took one of his subordinates' MAB 38s by the barrel. It had a wide, heavy oak stock. He wound up by England's head like he was about to tee off at the links.
"Stop!" America shouted. "Fine, Jesus Christ, whatever you want, just...fucking stop."
Italy lowered the machine gun and smiled. "I knew America cared about his friends. Just like I care about mi famiglia."
America slumped against the desk, trembling.
Italy gestured to the men holding him down. "It's okay, mi soldati, you can let him up. I trust America to keep his word."
He was free all at once. He regained his feet, twitching and shaking, and stumbled to where England lay. He knelt beside the other man and touched his shoulder gingerly. England made no response.
"You will take care of the details, si? And I know you won't tell anyone. Or you know what happens!" That was said so cheerfully that America's hands closed into fists before he even registered the pain from his fingers. Italy let his button men precede him, then paused by the door, all smiles. "And convince England not to say anything too! Otherwise..."
America nodded numbly. The door clicked shut.
He touched his ally's shoulder again. This time the other man gave a small, irrepressible shudder. Something in America's chest ached. "England," he whispered.
Continue to Part 4.