Hey there, Fang here.

For all those wondering, this is the beginning of the re-write for "Icy Darkness". If you had favorited or followed that story, I would be greatly appreciative if you would switch to this story, where the plot of Arthur being kidnapped by Russia is exactly the same, as are most of the details of the story up to the last chapter I wrote.

I love the premise of this story. It's one of the reasons I am going to the trouble of re-writing it. I felt that my writing style a year or two ago, when I started it originally doesn't give it justice compared to many of the stories I've read recently. I want to vamp up the quality of this story, and maybe add a few bits in here and there.

Again, thank you for your patience. If you are new to this story, you are hopefully in for a treat. If you are transferring over from "Icy Darkness", welcome back, and please forgive me for all this confusion.

Arthur finished applying pressure to the small wound at his temple and took the reddened cloth away, satisfied that it was done bleeding. He didn't have any bandages on him at the moment, but he made himself a mental note to remedy that situation as soon as possible. The cut looked like it was clean enough in the mirror, though it still a bit noticeable. The bruise on his jaw was way too out in the open though, but there was nothing he could really do about that. He sighed in exasperation. Thinking back, this meeting had been an interesting development in the physicality of politics. If he was going to end up being caught in the middle of it more often, then he would need to start preparing accordingly.

As it was, Arthur shoved his bloody handkerchief into his pocket, and left the bathroom. Why countries couldn't settle differences more civilly he had no answer to, he thought to himself. Not that he didn't appreciate the blowing off of some steam every once in a while, but this was getting too out of hand.

All he wanted right now was to get himself home as soon as possible, fetch himself a cup of Earl Grey tea (probably more than that, if he was going to be honest with himself), and finish up some last minute paperwork before turning in early and getting some much needed sleep. First step to this was getting out of the building alive, though. Not normally a problem, except for this last meeting was bringing up new complications that made Arthur question his own safety.

Or he was overanalyzing the entire thing. That was possible too. All he wanted to do was get out of this building safely and silently.

"Artie, wait up!"

Well, that plan was blown to hell.

Arthur looked over his shoulder to see the American rushing towards him at full throttle. He stifled a groan, and prepared himself for one of Alfred's famous jump-hugs that left you on the ground moaning in pain. To his happy surprise, Alfred simply came up to his side and stopped, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Well, hello to you too, chap." Arthur replied, the tension melting from his muscles as he realized he wasn't about to be mowed down by an over-enthusiastic American. "Rousing meeting, wouldn't you say?" He raised an eyebrow at his brother.

Alfred looked sheepish as they walked. As he rightly should.

"S-Sorry…" he mumbled out, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"The country summit is not the best place for a bar brawl, do you think? It's especially between you two. Next time you want to pull a stunt like that, you and Russia can go fight in the sandbox and stay out of the building."

Alfred shrugged his shoulders in a half-apology. "Dude, he totally started it! If he hadn't taken that crack at my military and my competence and my maturity and everything else, then I wouldn't have jumped him like that, alright? It was his fault."

Arthur snorted. "And jumping across the table to throttle him is mature?"

"Hell yes it is!"

"Alfred…" Arthur ran a hand down his face, wincing slightly as he accidentally touched his wound.

Alfred stopped in his tracks, and laid a gently restraining hand on Arthur's shoulder. He was gazing intently at the darkening bruise upon Arthur's jaw, his eyebrows furrowed.

"That looks a bit serious, Artie…"

Arthur shook off his concern with a wave of his hand. "It's fine. It's better than I've had before, anyway."

Alfred turned his brother to face him, bringing a hand to his chin to lift his head up and get a better look at the mark. Arthur scowled and hit his hand away.

"Git, I said I'm fine!"

"I want to see for myself!" Alfred persisted to reach towards the offending bruise.

"There's no need for that, it's just a bruise! Honestly, Alfred, it's not like I'm dying or anything! You bloody git, you need to calm down."

"That's gotta hurt, though, bro."

"I told you, it's not that bad-"

Alfred's grip on his shoulder suddenly stiffened and tightened, and his voice cut off. Arthur looked up at him in annoyance, but shut his mouth when he swore he heard the grinding of his brother's teeth. He was staring straight behind him, his eyes no longer radiating warm concern. Arthur turned halfway and followed his gaze a little apprehensively.

Russia stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded about his chest. His eyes were downcast, making no motion that he had been listening in on their conversation, but his mouth was curled up in an almost cruel smile. Slowly, he raised his sight to the two brothers, and focused his gaze on Arthur.

Those deep violet eyes…they seemed to bore through Arthur's skull and into the very core of his being. Arthur drew himself up even taller and more straight-laced, meeting his eyes defiantly and without fear. Instead of forcing the Russian's eyes elsewhere, the man only grinned wider, as if that was the reaction he was hoping for all along. It unsettled Arthur inside, but he showed nothing to the man he had fought to pull off of his brother, and his brother off vice versa.

Alfred wasn't blind to whom Russia had been turning his attentions upon, and his eyes narrowed. Never removing his sight from Russia, he reached up and wrapped his hand tightly around Arthur's upper arm. Russia's focus shifted a centimeter upward, and his grin widened as he gazed at his archenemy, as if in acceptance of the challenge. Alfred tightened his grip protectively, ignoring the hot red fire in his gut threatening to explode.

"Arthur…C'mon." he murmured quietly in his brother's ear.

Arthur did not seem to listen; his entire attention was still focused upon the imposing Russian. Alfred tugged a little harder than he meant to, and forcefully drew Arthur away and down the hall.

The Englishman finally seemed to gather himself about halfway down the hall, and tried to remove Alfred's hand from his arm. Alfred barely noticed. His main concern now was getting as far away as possible from that dark force stinking up the building.

Only when they reached outside and the door to the building had swung shut did Alfred finally let go of his pent-up breath and of Arthur's arm. Both countries slumped onto the wooden bench just outside the door. Alfred leaned forward in his seat, his head in his hands, while Arthur sat back and massaged his tingling arm, letting the blood flow back in. Alfred took a few tentative breaths, trying to calm that mass of rage and anger that arose whenever he saw that disgusting scarf and hideous smile. Eventually, the ball of white fire in his gut began to dissipate with the soft breeze blowing past them.

Arthur flexed his fingers as they were beginning to move on their own again. He didn't say anything about Alfred's reaction back there. He didn't want to know what had spooked the unshakable American that much.

He knew his brother well enough now after all the wars they had fought through back to back, after all the drinks they had shared, after all the good times they had had after the Revolution that Alfred would let him know about something if he really pressed the issue, but Arthur also had the good sense to leave well enough alone sometimes. Alfred's clenched expression right now told him more than he needed to know.

"I don't think I've seen him that calm before in a while…" Arthur commented calmly, rubbing the back of his head. Alfred was clenching his fists and digging his nails deep into his palms. At the sound of Arthur's voice though, he released the tension building up in his hands, and they fell limply into his lap. He lifted his head to stare straight ahead of him.

"Artie…did you see the way he was looking at y- us?" Alfred asked, uncharacteristically quiet. Arthur tilted his head in misunderstanding.

"With the same utter hatred he gives you and everyone else? I saw it…so?"

"No, no, it wasn't just that…" Alfred was at a loss for words. How could he explain the…disturbing hunger that he saw in Russia's eyes? As if he wanted…what? For what purpose? He wouldn't admit it to himself or anyone else, but inside it scared Alfred just thinking about it.

"Nothing. I imagined it." He brushed off his concern as best he could.

Arthur looked at him quizzically, and opened his mouth to inquire further. Before he could though, his hand hit the tender spot on his head where he had been hit. He winced, and drew in a hitch of breath as he quickly took his hand away. Alfred glanced at him, guilt evident in his eyes at Arthur's pained expression.

"Hey, Artie, let me see…I never took a look at what I did- how you were injured." He reached out to Arthur to check his injuries, but Arthur brushed his hand away with a half-hearted commented about how it looked worse than it really was.

"Dude, just let me see anyway, alright?"

Arthur shook his head violently, which in hindsight, was not the best of ideas with a head injury. All of a sudden, his vision turned into a blur of colors and shapes, and he had to grab the bench to keep upright. Alfred took Iggy's moment of disorientation to grab his shoulder and turn him without much force to face him. He grasped the Brit's chin in his left hand and turned Arthur's face up to see the large discolored bruise on his jaw. Hideous shades of deep purple and black were peppering the pale skin underneath, and were impossible to be noticed even from a far distance away. Alfred gulped as he gently traced the dark mark, knowing that it was him in his rage who had put it there.

Arthur finally came out of his haze and batted Alfred's hand away from his face, again insisting that the mark was nothing, that it would heal in no time. But the guilty, upset look on Alfred's face gave him reason to pause, then sigh in resignation. Gratefully, Alfred moved Arthur's head so he could see the hastily cared-for cut at his temple. Blood was still flowing sluggishly out, and Alfred had to remind himself that all head wounds tended to bleed a lot even when they weren't that serious before he began to internally panic. Arthur leant him his already bloodied handkerchief, and Alfred set to work dabbing at the wound.

It wasn't so deep that it would need stitches, but even so, Alfred reached into his side pocket for the small emergency kit he kept to pull out two butterfly bandages. He gently pulled the cut closed, ensuring that it healed properly.

With the wound properly taken care of, Alfred replaced his kit. Arthur muttered his thanks, and quirked one corner of his mouth up in a smile at Alfred's still-worried expression. Alfred visibly relaxed, thankful for Arthur's forgiveness.

"You want an ice-pack for that bruise, Artie? It wouldn't hurt, you know." He suggested, still wanting to help in any way possible. Arthur waved his hand, and he took that to mean the 'go ahead' signal. He stood up, placing his hands at the bottom of his spine and stretching.

"Don't move from here, kay?" Russia's eyes came back to him, and with it that same nagging worry he felt when he looked at his brother. He tried to mask it with a wide grin and a laugh, hoping that it would be enough.

Arthur simply sat back, gingerly touching his bruise. "I'm not going anywhere, git."

Alfred spared him one last glance before rushing back into the building in search of his quarry. Arthur sighed and sank into the bench.

Alfred was being overprotective again, he thought, remembering Alfred's drawing him closer with the incident with Russia. He hadn't done anything like that since World War II, right when he was joining in the war in Europe. The fact that his brother was feeling guilty about hurting him during the meeting wasn't doing wonders either. Alfred's constant paranoia was only growing, and Arthur, unfortunately, was becoming his recipient. He had tried to soothe Alfred's fears, whatever they might be, but it seemed to be for naught after that last little exchange.

His head was throbbing again. Arthur rubbed the spot again, thankful that there was no blood on his hand when he brought it to his face. He didn't think he had a concussion, as he didn't feel sleepy or anything of sort, so that was a start in the right direction.

Where was Alfred with those packs? Surely he must have found something by now. Arthur was beginning to feel a bit irritable from the pain, and he stifled a groan of frustration.

Something jerked his head back violently, and in his haste to cry out, he bit down on the flesh of a hand covering his mouth. His eyes went wide, and he fought the strong arm holding him down on the bench. He had almost gotten the hand away when something jabbed into his neck, and he could feel something cool sliding into his body. Almost instantaneously, Arthur's motor functions began to cease working, and his struggles against his attacker grew weaker and weaker.

"Ah…now what will America think when he finds I have his pet?" a voice snaked into his ear, and he shivered at the deep Russian accent. Already, his vision was beginning to fade.

"This is taking too long though…" the voice continued distastefully. A sharper pain erupted in the back of Arthur's neck, and he knew no more.

Author's Comments:

And so here we are. I added a good thousand or so words to this story...I was quite proud of myself.

Reviews are loved, and much appreciated, either by older readers of "Icy Darkness" or newcomers.

-Fang