American Ingiunity
Summary: America's luck is running out, and so is Russia's patience.
Rating: T
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
A sharp pain exploded in America's shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying, that if he squeezed them tight enough, he'd wake up and it would all just be a nightmare. Another sharp pain, this time in his ribs. Make that night terror...
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He bit his lip. He should of ripped up those tickets to Siberia that Russia had given him for his birthday. I won't cry! He told himself, so he held back the hot tears. Cold, leather-gloved fingers roughly grabbed him by his chin, jerking his head up to look through cracked spectacles and blurred vision into lavender irises.
"Почему вы будете сопротивляться, товарищ?"The silver haired man nearly purred in a thick Russian accent, gently laying the lead faucet pipe right above the American's temple.
America gave the Russian a rye smile, "Can't answer you if I don't know what the Hell you're saying." He spat.
A deep, rumbling chuckle was elicited from the Russian as he raised his faucet pipe. Pain ravaged America's every nerve and his vision disapeared in a bright flash. He heard himself yelp and he felt the blood trickle down from his forehead over his nose, lips, and chin, then down to his white dress shirt, staining it a deep mahagony.
"Now your shirt is as red as the stripes on your damned flag, comrade." Russia cooed.
America was shaking violently. He felt sick, but he resolved to hold on to his diginity. The sick Russian bastard wasn't going to defeat him. The chilly curve of the pipe gently touched the American's cheek. He squirmed against the thick ropes. He could hear and feel the rope rubbing against his arms, weathering down his precious, now blood stained bomber jacket.
"Почему вы так сопротивляться, Америка?" Came the thick Russian accent again. He accentuated his words by gently stroking the American's bruised cheek with the pipe.
Another smirk played across the American's lips, "English, please? Or can your simply commie mind not handle that?".
A sharp leather-enforced slap was delivered by Russia. America looked at him, his smirk still held in place (if only just barely). Smug cerulean eyes locked onto narrowed lavender eyes.
"I'm growing impatient, America. I'm unpleasent when I'm angry." He snarled.
"You're unpleasant even when content." Came America's rebuttal.
The Russian chuckled, a cruel smirk gently slid across his pale lips. Once agian, cold, leather-gloved fingers grasped the American's chin. Though the contact was much milder, much more gentle, then previous endevors, it sent a sick feeling plummeting into America's stomache.
"You are stupid. What did you expect upon your arrival to Siberia, hmmm? A warm welcome and a bouqet of sunflowers?" He sniffed.
The American didn't respond, despite his utter disire to have a snappy comeback. He could hear the maddening "tiktok" of Russia's watch as the seconds passed by in silence. America still had nothing to say. What exactly had he expected? He himself wasn't quite sure, but he knew for certain it wasn't being dragged to a dark, damp interrogation cell and beaten senseless. God forbid the arrogant young man ever wish that upon himself!
"Well? I'm waiting." Came the amused Russian's purr.
"I...I don't know..." America finally admitted, "But not this you Commie bastard!" He spat in disguist.
"Or maybe you did." He chuckled darkly, "Why else would I neglect to include a return ticket? You are a glutten, but for punishment?" He trailed off, now running his fingers throw America's hair, stopping briefly to attempt to tame the wild strand.
America scowled, he opened his mouth to say something, but words evaded him. He felt a warm, wet droplet make its way down his cheek, leaving a cold trail behind. A single tear. Russia ran his gloved index finger under the American's eye. America instantly had to swallow back more. He. Would. Not. Cry... Another sharp pain. He didn't know where the blow was struck... all he knew was that every fiber in his being was screaming in angony.
He heard himself (or at least he thought it was himself with what little of the concious thinking he had left. It sounded so distant he couldn't tell...) cry out in pain and into choked sob. He saw a blur lunge at Russia and then another, then another. He heard shouts and curses though they sounded far away. As one of the blurs moved toward him, he tried to stay awake.
"Mattie...?" he whispered before his world dissovled into darkness...
America opened his eyes. The room he was in was bright, torturously so. Wait, he thought, where the hell am I?
awake. Good. I was begining to believe you had keeled over and died."
Enland sat in a chair with a thick book in hand and an untouched cup of tea on a little table beside him. He had a smile on his lips, however, thus said smile didn't quite reach his emerald eyes. America nodded solemly, for once choosing not so respond immediately and simply take in the atmosphere. He looked at England, still focused on his injured Ally. His normally bright, green eyes were bloodshot and dull from what America deduced was from lack of sleep. Sleeping on the unoccupied hospital bed beside him was Canada. He, like England, was covered in bruises and and cuts, but other than that, he seemed okay. France walked him, his arm in a sling, and smiled.
"Well, well, well! Look who decided to wake up!" He cooed, "Four days of sleep and we were beginning to worry."
"Four days?" America yelped, trying to sit up quickly but only to cry out in pain again and be pushed back down by England.
"You are in no condition to be making sudden movements like that, Alfred!" He snapped, then turned to tell France to "shut his froggy mouth".
America lay back and let them bicker. He closed his eyes again. It had all felt like a dream, but he knew better. His aching, exhausted body told him so. He could feel the lingering thoughts from (apparently) four days ago ringing in his ears;
"You are stupid. What did you expect upon your arrival to Siberia, hmmm? A warm welcome and a bouqet of sunflowers?"
He could feel a headache begin to throb in his temple. He squeezed his eyes tighter.
"Why else would I neglect to include a return ticket? You are a glutten, but for punishment?"
The throbbing worsened.
"America?" Came the whispery voice of Canada, "You're crying..."
America's eyes flew open and he could feel the cold trails of the warm tears. Canada's eyes were coated with concern, his mouth drawn up into a tight line. America looked at his brother and forced a faltered, weak smile.
"Its nothing Matthew. Honest." America insisted.
"You're lying, Al... " Came his quiet reply.
"What? Heros don't lie!" America blurted.
"Bro... You can't be the Hero all the time."
Silence fell between them. For the American, it felt as if three miles had been placed inbetween them with one sentence.
"Alfred? I'm sorry..." Canada softly spoke in his usual, appeasing way.
"No. You're right..." America quietly responded.
Canada stayed a few minutes longer, even though nothing else had been said. When he left, he apologized agian (though America wasn't sure wrong, afterall his brother really hadn't done anything wrong) and kissed America on the top of the head.
America was alone. France and England had already left because they had been politely asked to leave due to their bickering and the doctor told them to come back to the next day, preferable at different vistiting hours. So there he sat, alone, with all the thoughts of the previous day rattling around in his head. He tried to sleep, but it would quickly evade and mock him. He tried to not think about it, but Russia's words just kept running in circles over and over and over again in the American's head.
When the doctor finally came to check on America, he gave him strong pain medication for his aching body. It wasn't but ten minutes before America could sleep, but before conciousness had slipped away, America could hear Russia's voice;
Готовы ли вы дать, товарищ...?