Meet the Bosses
Not for the first time, America and Russia found themselves curled up comfortably on America's couch, faces illuminated by the glow of the television before them. In the mood for comedy, America had popped Meet the Parents into the DVD player and the two watched Ben Stiller attempt to impress and satisfy Robert Deniro so he could marry his daughter. The awkward atmosphere for Stiller's character was enough to make both of them laugh and cringe in sympathy. Jetlagged, Russia had dozed off shortly after the end; America, not having the heart or desire to move either of them, followed suit…
Morning came quickly, and with it a total change in Russia's demeanor…along with a case of stomach butterflies that made America's stomach do somersaults.
"Babe, listen, about today…"
"It was your idea," Russia was quick to cut in as they stood in his family room, both far too on edge to sit down.
"I know…" Indeed, it had always bothered America that, in the midst of how unorthodox their relationship was, he had never gone through quite the proper courting procedures his upbringing warranted. And so he found himself pacing, pacing, pacing, waiting for the inevitable.
And in he stepped. Russia's boss was dressed to impress, his suit carefully tailored and crisp as could be. He greeted his nation with the kind of formality one might see a parent used toward an eldest child destined to inherate the family business. Then, he turned to America, and disapproval was written clear across his face. "Ivan, the prime minister is in the other room and has been looking forward to seeing you." Russia glanced quickly at America, saw his boyfriend's wide eyes, but was forced to take that as his cue to bow out. And so Russia's boss was alone to size up Alfred.
"Sit down, United States of America," the president said, motioning for the armchair opposite the couch he was sitting himself down in. The armchair directly beneath one of the lights, so reminiscent of an interrogation room.
But aha! This was a moment America had been practicing for ages now! "M-mozhna prosta Alfred," he said. You can simply call me Alfred.
"No, America will do," the president stated, closing the debate. America sighed. He could get through this…he had to…
Five minutes later and America was feeling very hot around the collar. In front of him, Russia's boss was meticulously cleaning an antique rifle, supposedly only for decoration, but that did not explain why he was removing and cleaning each individual bullet and reloading them into the chamber. He seemed entirely uninterested in America's speech.
"S-sir," he continued, cursing himself for letting his voice crack.
A loud click, and the rifle was fully loaded, Russia's boss eyeing the barrel with a bored expression. "You are using him," he stated.
America leaned forward. "Sir, that's far from the case-"
"You mean this is simply a case of more access to oil.
"Sir, I love your daughter- COUNTRY very much."
"I am an easy man to please, America. All I ask for is honesty. Now, are you going to be a terrible influence for my nation?"
"Not at all!" Blue eyes went wide.
"Do not lie." Where were Russia and the prime minister that they weren't hearing all this?
As if on cue, both men slid into the room, the prime minister donning a look of concern, hoping to diffuse the situation. Russia sat down beside his boss, looking every part of the embarrassed daughter wishing her father would calm down. "Stop treating him like that," he demanded with a glare.
Russia's boss would hear none of it. He rose, raising his weapon, except it was no longer a rifle- it was an over-the-shoulder rocket propelled grenade. America blanched. "You have ten seconds to get out of here," he was told, the rocket trained right between his eyes.
"I'll call you, babe!" America said to Russia as he slipped out of the house, the rocket hot on his heels.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The next few seconds were a tangle of limbs and harsh swearing as America bolted upright and dislodged himself and Russia from the couch. Russia's arm swung out and knocked him full in the face, while his own foot connected with Russia's stomach. Both were an utter mess by the time America got his bearings.
"What happened?" Russia asked, half glaring and half concerned, rubbing at his ribs.
"Ivan," America began slowly, blinking the image of Russia's disapproving boss out of his head. "Next time we bring our bosses anywhere, just bring your PM." It was not a request. Russia stared, baffled, at his wide-eyed boyfriend, but for the moment had no choice but to nod. America shot a scowl at the DVD box lying on the table as they both trudged upstairs.
"Ben, you had nothing to complain about," he grumbled, further confusing Russia.
THE END
AN: ifyoudon'tseepostsfrommeanymoreassumekgbfoundme