So, kind of a little add-on to Baby It's Cold Outside… just because some people have told me that they want to see Iggy go beat the crap out of our favorite little commie Russia. So, this story's rated M for references to rape and disturbing imagery. Also, it's one of the darker pieces I've written. It took me a long time to write it just because I kept on depressing myself. XD

Also, just plain disturbing in some parts I think. I really surprised (scared) myself with this one. So, you've been warned!

So, I hope you like it! :D Please review!

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The phone rang, waking England up from his sleep. At first, he tried to bury his face deeper into his pillows, hoping to muffle out the obnoxious ringing. However, this did nothing to help but begin to asphyxiate him. So, getting ready to start yelling at whoever was ringing him up this late, he angrily got out of his warm bed. Drearily he looked at his clock, growling to see that it was a little after two in the morning. Who in God's name had to call him so damn early in the morning on a weekend? Finally shuffling to the shelf his phone was placed on, England glanced at the caller ID. And nearly went to grab a hammer.

Why the hell was America calling him? How did the damn idiot always forget about time zones? What was late evening for him was early morning in the dead of night for England. Furious, England picked up the phone. "Dammit, America!" he shouted into the receiver. "How many fucking times do I have to tell you—?"

"Oh, please keep your language down, England."

England felt himself go cold at hearing the voice, his eyes widening in shock. What the hell was this? "R-Russia?" he muttered, automatically looking for a weapon on instinct even though he was hundreds of miles away.

"Hello, England," Russia said sweetly, his voice sounding too innocent to mean anything good. "How are you doing?"

"Stop toying with me," England growled, gripping the phone much harder than was necessary. "What the hell are you doing at America's house?"

Russia chuckled, sending a shiver down England's spine. "I'm just dropping him off is all. He was tired from… playing with me. I don't think the drugs settled too well with his system though."

For a moment, England couldn't say anything. His eyes stared off blankly, his mind trying to take in what he had just heard. Drugs. Russia had drugged America. "What did you do to him," England whispered, cursing himself for how weak his voice was.

"Ha, oh, I did plenty," Russia replied with a giggle. "I found out so much too! Did you know that you can shove a pipe a little over a foot into someone before they pass out from the pain? Too bad it got all covered in his blood though—it will take me quite a while to clean it. Oh, and I found out that he can take in three dildos before his muscles finally rip apart! Hah, and after that, I could fit in—"

"Shut up!" England roared, gripping his head as he felt like he was about to throw up. "Shut up, shut your damn mouth!"

Russia laughed coldly. "That's what I told America to do when he wouldn't stop screaming for help."

Another horrible chill wracked through England's body, his whole being going numb. Not even in his worst nightmares had England ever imagined America begging for help. He just couldn't picture it in his head—it was impossible. "Stop it."

"He kept on screaming for help—it was rather amusing," Russia taunted, his voice sounding childlike; almost angelic. "He liked to scream your name a lot. Always screaming for you to help him."

"Stop."

"But you never came. He kept yelling and screaming for you, but you never came to save him."

Tears England didn't know he'd been holding back fell from his eyes, gripping the phone ever tighter. "S-stop it!"

"But you want to know what my favorite part was?" Russia whispered, the demonic smile on his face audible in his voice. "My favorite was when he finally started screaming my name. Screaming, 'Please, Ivan, I'll do anything, please Ivan, just let me go!' Heh, and he was willing to do anything, he really was. Too bad he forgets that I don't my keep promises."

No words came to England. He stood there staring at the wall, feeling tears roll down his face. He had never trusted Russia, never even liked him. But now, now all he wanted to do was take a gun point blank and shoot his brains out across the wall. "For your sake," England said into the phone, his voice deathly calm, "America better be alive when I get there."

Russia gave a little chuckle, sending more anger coursing through England's veins. "He's very well alive, do not worry England," he said. "Though, I can't say he wants to be. For all I know, he could commit suicide after I leave. I wouldn't be surprised—he was in an amazing amount of pain."

"Russia," England murmured. "I suggest you get your affairs in order. Because next time I see you, I'm going to rip out your entrails and force you to eat them. Raw."

The other line went silent for a moment, almost as if Russia seemed cautious. However, Russia gave a laugh. "I'd love to see you try, suka." With that, there was a click and the line went dead.

x-x-x-x-x

Russia smiled happily as he turned from the phone, content with how distressed England must be now. All of the other countries were so easy to toy with—they all felt close to other countries, hated to see their friends hurt. But Russia didn't have that. All he had had his whole life was hatred and scorn and pain and betrayal. He had no one to love, no one to feel close to or protective of. Some days he felt lonely and lost in the world because of this. But he could always fix that by entertaining himself with one of the Baltic States. But even they got boring after a while. Russia already knew all of their limits, all of their cries of pain. They were so old and boring and predictable. But listening to new screams, seeing new blood, watching unfamiliar faces contort in pain—it just made him shiver with pleasure thinking about it.

Especially if the country being tortured was America. How he hated him, how had had always wanted to see him crying and begging for mercy, see him covered in his own blood, see his body writhing beneath him. It was a pity that he had had to wash the American up though, seeing as he didn't want to look suspicious dragging an unconscious blood-covered body on to his private plane. America looked so dull now, lying crumpled on his own bed, having not moved even an inch from where Russia had left him. Russia smiled darkly at him, pushing down on his side where he knew his ribs were fractured if not broken as he leaned over to whisper in his ear. His smile grew wider as he heard America whimper beneath him, his muscles weakly tensing at his touch. "I know you're awake," he whispered, pushing down harder on his damaged ribs. "I've had so much fun for the past day and a half. I'm glad I was able to convince you to come. I'm going to leave now though." He lifted his head to look America in the face. He could tell that America was peering at him through his eyelashes, trying to feign unconsciousness. "But before I go," Russia said sweetly, roughly grabbing him by the chin, "I need a kiss."

America finally opened his eyes, glaring at the cold country with an amazing amount of hatred. Even Russia had trouble remembering the last time such hatred had been directed at him. "When hell freezes over, bastard."

Russia gripped his chin harder, smiling as he saw pain flash across America's face—it sure would be fun to break his jaw in half. "Hell has been frozen over for a long time, suka. It's where I live." Forcing his mouth open, Russia shoved his tongue inside, doing everything he could to try to make America choke on him. Russia half-expected a struggle, but actually laughed as he realized that America just lied there and took it. He shoved down harder on the broken country's ribs, reveling in the cry of pain he got in return as one finally snapped.

Pain was such a beautiful sound.

x-x-x-x-x

It took far too long for England to finally arrive in the United States. He had taken a private plane to the country, but no one had been awake or able to get to a plane until over an hour had passed after Russia's call. That whole hour, England had been pacing frantically, trying to decide whether to go to America or Russia first. He wanted desperately to tear Russia apart piece by piece, to torture him, to do all kinds of torture he had learned during his years of pirating. But as he thought of all the pain that Russia had told him he'd put America through, he knew he had to see America first. Russia was right about one thing—with all of the trauma he had been through in such a short amount of time, he was sure suicide was looking like a very good option to America at the moment. Finally when someone had arrived that could take him, they left immediately, England only able to say, "It's urgent, hurry," over and over again. After a painful six hours of flying, he had finally made it to the country, the airport miraculously only about ten minutes from America's home. After breaking a few speeding laws—and almost getting in an accident for forgetting to drive on the right side of the road in America—England finally arrived at the house. Even though he had done everything he could to get here as soon as possible, he was extremely nervous about entering the house. He didn't know what to expect, and it terrified him. What if America was dead? What if Russia was still here and was planning on ambushing him? What if, when he found America, he couldn't even recognize him from what Russia did to him?

Feeling sick with anxiety, England forced himself to leave the car and walk towards the front door. Each step he took sent him farther and farther into panic. What if? What if? What if? But he couldn't handle asking himself this anymore. He had to know. Not what if, but what is.

Summoning all of the strength he had, he pulled out his spare key to America's house, turned the lock, and entered the house.

Silence.

Never before had England entered America's house and only heard the sound of silence. There was always music or television on in the background—it was never quiet. Slowly, England placed his hand on his hip, finding the holster his gun was placed in. His green eyes surveyed his surroundings carefully, looking for any sign of Russia. He was not going to come this far just to be killed by Russia—no, he wasn't going to go down that easily.

After he had carefully looked over everything, England cautiously stepped forward, his eyes constantly moving, trying to catch sight of anything suspicious. So far, nothing looked like it was going to jump out and try to kill him. He slowly began to relax, feeling no danger or threat in the house.

Until something clicked in the room next to him. Something that clicked just like bullets being loaded into a gun.

Not waiting to be ambushed, England kicked the door aside, gun out and cocked in an instant, pointing directly at—

England froze, dropping his gun to the floor as his eyes widened in shock. Just at the other side of the door, lying on the floor with huge, fear-filled eyes, was America. He had a gun in hand, but he highly doubted he could use it, seeing as he couldn't even get off the ground. For a moment, the two stared at each other, no words able to form. England was just glad that America wasn't a pile of diced human by now—he had been trying to prepare himself for that possibility. After what felt like days, England was finally able to remember how to work his voice. "A…America?"

America stayed still, not removing his eyes from where England stood. His eyes were still huge, still terrified. Slowly, England took a step forward, keeping his eyes on America's face, trying to figure out his reaction. There didn't seem to be any panic at him moving, so England carefully took another step towards him. Then another. And another. Everything was going just fine, and America seemed calm. Once he was close enough, he fell to his knees next to him, the stress finally getting to him. His throat caught as tears wanted to escape him, but he held them back—he had to stay calm. "America," he said again slowly. "America, where are you hurt?"

America stared at him, not saying a word. England was getting fearful from the look on his face, horrified that America might have gotten traumatized enough that he was suffering from amnesia. Carefully, he reached a hand out to touch him.

As soon as his hand reached out, he felt the cold metal of the gun pressed against his forehead. He blinked, startled by just how fast the gun had gotten there—one moment, it was placed against the ground in America's hand; the next, it was against his head. His hand paused, trying to figure out what was going on in America's head. Did he know who he was? Did he know the difference between him and Russia? Did he think that everyone was like Russia now? What was happening to him?

"Do," America rasped, his blue eyes wide and feral. "Not. Touch. Me."

England stared at him, shocked by his expression—hate-filled, spiteful, suspicious. None of it was America. None of this was him. Slowly, England retracted his hand, placing it on his lap. "Okay," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on America, trying to remain calm. He stayed still, not knowing whether the revolver was cocked or not. If it was, all America had to do was twitch his finger and his brains would be splattered against the wall behind him. "Sorry."

America continued to stare at him, not lowering the gun. The top half of his body was propped up by his elbow. Even though it was a slight angle, America looked extremely pained by it, the metal lightly quivering against his head. Even though he had a calm expression on his face, England felt his heart rate increase drastically. Was he going to die here? He had come in thinking that his main concern was going to be Russia; never had he thought that it was going to be America trying to kill him. "America?" England said in the softest voice he had. "Do you… know who I am?"

Blue eyes continued to stare fiercely into his green ones, not moving away once. "England," he answered, pulling the hammer of the revolver back with his thumb. England felt a jolt shoot down his spine, his eyes widening. Why was America cocking it? What was he doing?

"Amer—"

"Shut up," America hissed, pressing the gun harder against England's forehead, pushing his head back. "Don't talk. Just shut up and listen for once."

England had no idea why he was so angry with him; him, the one who had rushed across the Atlantic Ocean to make sure he was still alive. But America was the one with the gun, so he had no choice but to listen.

"Do you know how long I waited?" America snarled, staring directly into his eyes. "How long I was tortured? How long I was fucked? Do you?"

No words could leave England's throat. He'd never seen America in so much pain. Mutely, he lightly shook his head.

"Thirty-nine hours," America growled. "That's how long I was stuck in that hell hole. That's how long he cut me, how long he burned me, how long he shoved things inside of me, how long he kept injecting me with drugs, how long he hit me, slapped me, cussed at me, called me a whore." The tip of the gun was shaking against England's forehead, making him frightened. If America just happened to twitch the wrong muscle, he'd be dead. "That's how long I waited for you, England. How long I waited for you to come! How long I waited for you to come and stop it!"

England stared at him, trying to figure out what he was saying. He'd been waiting for him? How was he supposed to know what had been going? There was no way that he could have just known. "How was I supposed to know?" England murmured, trying to keep his voice even, trying to hide the hurt and the anger he felt.

America returned his stare, looking dumbfounded. "What?" America paused, his hand shaking more than before. "Check your phone." England stared at him and was about to ask why the hell it was important when America shoved the gun harder against his forehead. "Check it now!"

Slowly, England reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile phone. He removed his eyes from America's long enough to press the power button. "It's turning on," he warned so America wouldn't jump for the noise and accidently shoot him. The phone buzzed as it powered up, its screen glowing. As it finally got to the menu screen, a message popped up. "+1 New Voice Message" Carefully, England pressed a few buttons, opening the mailbox. He put the phone to his ear as he listened to the message.

"Hah… E-England?" the message started, sending chills through England. It was America's voice. He sounded exhausted and utterly terrified. "England, please, pick up. England…" He let out a frustrated growl, the air hissing as it went past the receiver. "England, dammit, pick up! Urgh, God dammit… Listen, please… I… I'm at Russia's. You need to come now. He… He's… Oh God, England, you were right, I shouldn't have trusted him… Eng…. England, he's raping me." His whole body went cold, feeling like all the blood and life was draining away from him. America sounded so desperate, so helpless…. Because he was. America had desperately needed his help, and he hadn't even taken the time to check his messages to find his plea. He could have helped. He could have…

"Please, England, please, he—" His voice was cut off by the sound of a door opening, utter silence the only sound for several seconds. England nearly dropped the phone as he heard America start screaming, his hand fumbling to keep a hold of it. "England!" America shrieked, thumps and bangs being heard in the background. "England! Help me! Please! Engl—" America's voice was suddenly silenced with a loud bang, making England's chest tense. What just happened? What was going on?

Then he spoke.

"Hello, England," Russia's sweet voice greeted, sounding like he had just been out picking flowers from how innocent he pretended to be. "I'm sorry to have my little slut call you like this. I'll make sure he gets the proper punishment." He chuckled, making England murderous with rage. "Do svedanya," he said sweetly as the message finally ended with a click.

Not able to work his fingers right anymore, the phone slid out of his hand and hit the floor. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Why couldn't he have turned on his phone? Why couldn't he have checked his messages? Why couldn't he have done something, anything, differently? Why did he always have to make all of these wrong decisions that hurt people so much? The dam finally broke as tears freely flowed down his face. "America," he whispered, not daring to look him in the eye—he didn't deserve to look anyone in the eye ever again. "Oh God. America. I…"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry."

England forced himself to look up, surprised by America's words. Wasn't that what America wanted? Didn't he want England to feel sorry for what he didn't do? "Why?" he asked weakly. "Why not?"

"Because being sorry won't change anything," America murmured darkly. The simple statement felt like a knife in the stomach. "I don't care how sorry are for being an idiot who can't do anything right. I don't care. It's not going to stop be from getting raped. It's not going to stop anything." America finally lowered the gun, never letting his eyes leave England. "You can't change anything now. It's done."

It felt like something broke inside England. It was done. He couldn't do anything to change what had happened. America had been raped over and over again, and he had done nothing to stop it. He would have broken down sobbing if it weren't for him being completely numb inside and out. It was done. He couldn't do anything to fix this.

There was only one thing that he could do now.

Slowly, England stood up, not feeling his legs beneath him. "You need a doctor," he said quietly, simply, emotionlessly "You're hurt. You need a doctor."

"Then call one," America hissed.

"No time," he said. He kicked his phone over to America, making it run into his hand. "Call. I have to leave. I have a promise to keep." America said nothing as he continued to lie on the ground, a look of hate and utter disdain on his face. There was nothing England could do about this now—he'd have to fix it later. That is, if any of this could ever be fixed.

Without another word, England turned and exited the room, picking back up his gun from earlier. A plan already forming in his head, he slipped the gun back into its holster.

He would need it to keep his promise with Russia.

x-x-x-x-x

So… I meant for this story to be all "America, I love you!" and hurt/comfort… not angstedy-angst-angst with a side of angst… -sigh- Oh well… I still like it. Also, thought it was going to be a oneshot, but I'll add another chapter… where England pays a little visit to Russia's house.

Anyways, please review! :)