Notes: Rated T for Alfred's potty mouth, temporary character death, and depictions of blood (and a non-graphic autopsy at the end). This was written in part to channel my headcanon that Russia is highly uncomfortable with enclosed spaces, and thus suffers from intense claustrophobia. Enjoy!

Down a Winding Road

Looking back, Ivan would be able to recall with stunning clarity the finer details of the evening leading up to that unpleasant interruption. He would be able to remember exactly what was playing on the radio, what topic of conversation had America going on and on, blue eyes flashing with life. He would be able to see exactly the buildings they passed and the other drivers just trying to get home from a long day at work.

For them, for Russia and America though, they were setting off for a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant Alfred had apparently found just for the occasion, where they would be served fine wine from a well-dressed waiter who called them sir. They'd sample meals whose names made the menu more French than English- or Russian. Then later they would finish the night by curling up on the couch, a fire roaring in the grate, as they watched some foreign film.

Alfred had been telling him about how perfect the day was going to be for a week. It was supposed to be smooth sailing, all perfectly orchestrated, tenderly romantic, a nice break for the both of them. But of course there were things that could not be planned for.

As Russia shifted restlessly from the passenger side, he flicked on the heater built into the seat. Within minutes, a steady pulse of heat was caressing his back, and he signed in contentment. Alfred raised a brow.

"You're cold?" he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Nyet," Ivan answered with another sigh, violet eyes fluttering shut as his muscles relaxed. "But I think I am still sore from the plane ride. Too much sitting."

"Ah, I hear ya," Alfred hummed sympathetically. "Well, I'd say not to worry cause it'll be over soon, but, well, we'll be sitting down again right after. Sorry." The last bit came out with renewed earnest. His hands gripped the steering wheel a bit harder.

Russia caught the change in his tone and made immediately to remedy it. "Nyet, nyet- is fine. I have been looking forward to this for a while. Thank you, dorogoi." He glanced over at the driver's seat and saw with satisfaction that America's cheeks now had a lovely dusting of pink.

"I aim to please, big guy," was all he said.

They arrived at a red light. Alfred's fingers strummed the steering wheel as they waited for the signal to proceed. "Hey, did you look at the menu yet? Pick out anything you'd like?" he asked.

Ivan hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, I did. I asked France about-"

"Bah! What will France know? He probably just said he won't know cause the food'll be made so differently. Not that it is, though," America added defensively, knowing that many meals were made to be genuine and loyal to the source material. It tended to be a sensitive topic with him. Some made foreign cuisine with a degree of leeway, perhaps trying to cater to different taste pallets. Others, however, prided themselves on sticking to the source. When he decided to surprise Ivan with some native Russian cuisine for one of their past dates, Alfred had not missed the way Ivan's eyes widened or how his brow knit in apparent bewilderment. When asked, Ivan admitted tactfully that the taste was just not what he expected, but he still appreciated what Alfred did nonetheless.

"Actually, he did say something similar," Ivan said. He cut across Alfred's victorious exclamation of I knew it! by adding "But he also said he knew firsthand you could cook up French meals very well, and said he was glad England's cooking capabilities did not rub off on you." Alfred let out a bark of laughter, moving the car forward as the light turned green.

Ivan smiled evenly. Then, his gaze drifted out the passenger side window, and it happened. His vision was enveloped in the glare of headlights, there was a horrid, drawern out screech of brakes, skidding tires, a grating sound of crunching metal, searing pain- and then darkness. Dull, pulsing darkness…

0o0o0

Alfred's first bit of awareness came from the methodic beeping of a heart monitor. His body felt heavy, so very heavy. The beeping persisted. He tried lifting his arm, noting next a strange…absence…around his eyes. The effort was overwhelming. Already, he felt exhausted enough to drift back into that cold plane of nothingness. Still, the beeping continued, a weary war drum that had travelled the span of continents wishing to retire. The scents of cleaning solution wafted through his nostrils. Alfred's eyes blinked slowly open. With a groan, he registered easily enough that he was in a hospital bed, wires hooking him up to complex machines that emitted dull hums to let everyone know they were functioning. Great, really great. They were probably late for the reservations he had set. He even requested a rooftop view where they could dine under the stars. He just wanted everything to be nice and romantic for Russia, who- the sentimental bastard- never missed a chance to throw in some cheesy gift or reason to go out. Alfred didn't mind in the slightest though, but he so wanted to return the favor… Wait…

"Ivan!" he exclaimed, sitting up fast- too fast, his shoulder and head throbbed in protest.

"Oh, you're awake!" a nurse exclaimed, rushing over to check on him.

"Y-yeah," he said shakily, glancing around. The curtain was drawern only on one side, but he felt sure there was no one in the bed beside him. The side visible to him yielded the same results.

The nurse started going through the usual proceedings, firing questions at him and shining a light in his eyes to check his pupil dilations. "You're lucky- not even a concussion. But we want to keep you overnight to ensure there's no internal bleeding."

"That won't be necessary," he assured, straightening in his bed, slower now, more aware of the stiffness in his shoulder and the bandages wrapped tight around him. "What happened?" he asked sluggishly as he sought to regain his bearings.

"A driver ran a red light going eighty in a forty-mile lane," she explained with a grimace. "He's okay- just a broken leg, somehow. He'll be detained by officers as soon as we dismiss him. You're lucky to be alive

"But my friend- Ivan, the other man, did someone else come in? Is he okay?" The collision had happened on Russia's side of the car, so he must have been admitted too…

A look of confusion flashed briefly across her face. "Ee-vahn? We only found an ID for an Eye-van," she muttered.

"God, he'd die if he heard that pronunciation," Alfred muttered.

At this, she regained her composure; the nurse's face fell into a look of remorseful solemnity. "Sir, I…I'm very sorry to have to tell you this," she said, no doubt hoping to try and ease him into the news as easily as possible, and let him know she would be an understanding source of support. "But you're friend unfortunately did not make it. He was on the side where the car struck- the…the initial autopsy indicates it was very quick, he did not suffer."

"Oh shit," Alfred groaned, running his hands slowly through his hair. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, I had this all planned out so nice…"

The burse bit her lip, a little thrown from his reaction. "I know," she said soothingly. "But that's why it's important to appreciate what you have when you have it. You never know when-"

But America had another revelation. "Oh shit!" he groaned with renew fervor, tossing the blanket off of him as he made to stand. "Oh god- that means… he…where is he?" he asked imploringly, the wild look in his eyes not quite the look of a horrified, mourning friend.

"He- he's in the morgue, a few floors below," she said hesitantly, trying to maintain a professionally solemn tone. "We- wait!"

Alfred swung his legs off the edge of the bed, heart pounding in concern. "I have to see him," he lied smoothly.

In truth, the need was mutual. A few years ago, Russia and America had attended a meeting and were both running late. This resulted in both of them hurrying to get to the nineteenth floor where the meeting was to take place. Standing in the elevator, America had seen with no small degree of shock that Russia had his eyes fixed on the floor, his breath coming in long, shaking gasps as he kept his arms folded tight over his chest.

You okay? he had asked. Russia took several more shuddering breaths before nodding. Come on, man, fess up! Did something happen to your country? Alfred had pressed. Reluctantly, Ivan had raised his gaze to meet Alfred's and explained just as unwillingly his dislike of closed spaces.

It stemmed from all the invasions in his past, he explained after America had pressed when they were safely out of the elevator. He had had bad experiences with tight spaces…After the meeting, America was able to catch the look of dread that crossed Russia's face as they headed for the elevator again. Without missing a beat, he had steered them seamlessly towards the stairs, escorting him down every step of the way. Russia had for once been quite at a loss, stammering words of thanks.

And now, in this bleak, sterile hospital, down in the morgue, after an autopsy…

…he was probably in a drawer right now. A dark, stifling, tightly-compact drawer…

"Sir," the nurse interrupted his scrambled thoughts. "Sir, I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I promise you'll be able to see him, but for now you're to remain in bed!"

"No, I can't!" Alfred exclaimed, sliding to his feet. A shiver passed through his toes to the top of his head as the cold from the floor leeched into his skin, reviving him, helping him find clarity.

"You need to lay down!"

"I need to help him- he's going to freak out!" he said, genuinely frazzled at this point.

There was a flurry of movement on either side of him as two large security personnel closed in on him, needles at the ready. He glanced from one to the other, then let out a sigh.

Of course they couldn't just let this be easy…

0o0o0

Darkness.

Stiffness.

Numbness. A strange, weighted sensation enveloping his entire being. It felt as though he were wrapped in some thick, suffocating blanket, floating in a space neither here nor there. There was neither up nor down, hot or cool. He was aware- barely, in some far recess of his mind- of his limbs, lying limply around him, the tips of his fingers brushing some flat surface, the heels of his feet pressed against it. Whether his eyes were closed, he could not tell, so dark was that numbing purgatory. There was sound and silence.

His first thought, as gradually his sense of self began to return to him, was that he must have died. Again. No, it was not the first time, nor would it probably be the last. It was an occupational hazard of being the embodiment of an old nation. An inconvenience, at this point. As it was now.

Gradually, feeling spread from his mind to the cells of his body, travelling through the delicate nerves and tendons that kept him moving, functioning. He became aware of the fact that he was cold. This was to be expected; after the blood circulation had diminished, the body was left with no source of warmth for some time. He also experienced a hollow sensation in his chest. Perhaps his pesky heart had fallen out again. No doubt from…from…

As his body continued to relearn itself, his mind followed suit at an equally sluggish pace, piecing together the events that had led up to where he was now- wherever exactly that was to begin with. He remembered he and Alfred sliding into America's car- a flashy sports car that made Russia have to roll his seat back as far as possible to accommodate his longer legs. Then they were driving, chatting idly, the warmth from his seat (how he welcomed it once more) easing the tension from his back. Then everything after that was a blur of ear-splitting noise and light.

Oh.

He must have died from the crash. It certainly was a head-on collision for the driver of the other vehicle. Russia wondered idly how whoever it was had faired.

But wait. The disorderly jumble of his thoughts continued to try and reorganize themselves. He shifted slightly, his arms and legs aching and stiff. That was definitely not the unyielding firmness of pavement beneath him, nor was it grassy earth, or even anything remotely related to the crash he and Alfred had just experienced. It was…smoother, cooler…

…metal…

With a deep, shuddering breath, Russia let his eyes flutter open. Except, he had no real way of knowing that his eyes were open. Everything before him was continuing darkness, the same darkness that he had been cocooned in during his temporary demise. Except this…this was worse- far worse. Biting his bottom lip, Ivan raised an aching arm shakily above his body, only for it to make contact with something hard mere inches above his face. When he tried to bend his legs- which were bare, just like his arms and torso- he found himself unable to raise his knees without them bumping the same metallic ceiling.

Bozhe moi, nyet…

Like a rope going taut, Russia drew his limbs close to him, a stiffness shooting through his entire being as his eyes squeezed shut, trying in vain to block out the invasive closeness of it all. It was no good. Just beyond the barrier of his eyelids, he could see with unnerving clarity the walls of his prison drawering closer, trapping him, leaving him unable to move, unable to flee, unable to raise his arm in defense, to curl in on himself and seek comfort in his own personal shell…

Unbidden, memories from long ago- recollections he had tried to keep long buried- crept to the forefront of his mind.

He and Ukraine had been fleeing from invaders, crashing through dense thickets, branches scratching at their faces and clawing at their clothes. They had gotten separated. There were so many of them… Upon finding his sister nowhere to be found, Ivan had panicked, fled into the nearest building he could find, sought shelter in a room barely larger than an alcove, dark, secluded. There was no space to hide himself further in that cramped space, but the shadows should have at least cloaked him, if his pursuers even knew to look for him in this abandoned place. A minute passed, the most agonizing minute of his life, where every tiny sound was his attacker flinging the door open, where his ears rang from the strain of trying to detect a cold chuckle, a triumphant exclamation. All he could do was wait, arms punned to his sides, the only thing available to look at in the pressing darkness being the closed door in front of him, with no way to escape.

Unfortunately, they had been able to track his path by following his footprints in the snow. At last, the sound he had been dreading reached his ears, as light flooded his tiny sanctuary and a condescending smile gleamed before him. And there was nowhere for him to go.

The scars on his neck prickled as he began to tremble, trying, forcing, failing to keep his breathing relaxed. His metal prison seemed to get smaller and smaller as he remembered, centuries upon centuries later, when he had made a crucial mistake...

Ivan had let slip to him about his fear. It had been a passing comment, an attempt to bond with the red tyrant who seemed so determined to mistreat those in his care. Ivan had thought that if he could bridge some sort of gap between them, things would ease at last. He had been so very wrong. Upon hearing his confession, he had ordered Ivan to be locked in a room so small, he did not even have room to sit. He could only stand inside that miniscule area with no light, no sound, no space. "This nation cannot have any weaknesses," he had explained. "We must rid you of anything that makes you less powerful." The door was slammed shut. Hours later, when he was finally let out, he was too unresponsive to look afraid, to show the trauma he had endured. His stoicism, masking an internal turmoil, had been mistaken for a renewed hardness, though, and he was allowed to leave.

"Ukraine," he said in a broken whisper to the stale air, some irrational part of him sure that she must hear, that by calling out to her she would be able to appear miraculously right there and fix everything. Two long, shaking breaths. "America." His voice was even more wavering now. Russia was starting to feel lightheaded. Concentrate. Concentrate on conserving air. He needed to conserve. All the while, his head spun, and Ivan could feel sharp jabs pulse through his chest, right temple, and abdomen, no doubt where he had sustained heavy injuries from the crash.

Somewhere in the distance, from some faraway place away from this dark, freezing hell, across borders and over seas, he heard movement. His panicking mind reached out, trying frantically to piece together what was happening, who it could be. Anonymity be damned- he needed to get out of there, now.

"Al-Alfred!" he called, mustering all his willpower into making his voice carry. Suddenly, the ceiling seemed to cave in, grinding at an agonizing pace down toward him. Arms throbbing, he pressed his hands as best he could against the flat metal of the drawer above him, determined to stave off the impending smothering. The movement outside grew louder, closer, so near and so very real that he could feel the vibrations where he lay.

"Alfred!" he yelled again, pushing, pushing with all his might to keep the walls from crushing him. Just a bit longer…

There came the shrill sound of metal scraping against metal. Russia felt his cold bed be tugged down, felt the metal slide against his fingers before his arms collapsed to his sides. A sliver of light broke through, expanding in size to envelop him in a comforting glow, as all around him he saw the wonderful sight of open space, fresh air, and Alfred, whose blue eyes had a wildness of their own as he peered down in evident concern.

"I'm so sorry, big guy! Are you okay?" America brought a clammy hand to caress his cheek. "Shit, you're shaking like a leaf," he muttered, his distress furthering.

Ivan had not even noticed he was trembling until he felt the steady presence of Alfred's hand on his face, a gentle pressure that helped ground him even as he took long shuddering gasps of air, like a drowning man clings to any reprieves above the water he can salvage. For what felt like ages, all he could do was take deep gulps of air and blink in the fluorescent light shining from above. Alfred rubbed gentle circles into his shoulder, taking care to avoid where he had been hit or cut; those places of laceration were already stitched back up and cleaned. When at last he regained some of his bearings, he shakily sat up, Alfred pressing gently against his shoulder blade to prove some support.

"S-spasiba, solntse," he muttered gratefully, sighing one last time.

"Anytime," America said, and Ivan was sure he was hoping to put more meaning into that statement than words alone could evoke. Russia reached up and grasped his hand, giving it a squeeze, telling him I know. America squeezed back.

Though still shaken, Russia could feel himself calming down by the second. He peered down at his chest, the hollow feeling persisting, and saw a Y-shaped line of stitches stretching across his torso. Glancing around, he saw his heart on a tray.

"Oh shit," Alfred said eloquently, following Russia's gaze. "You…want me to get it, or…?" He waved his arm vaguely.

Russia chuckled- it felt good to be able to do that in earnest- and shook his head. "Nyet, I will," he assured, clambering to his feet. With a groan, he took of Alfred's silent offer and threw an arm across his shoulders, leaning on the American as he ambled over to that pesky organ. He had just slipped it back in to his chest when they heard a choked gasp. They wheeled round.

A doctor stood plastered against the wall, mouth agape, eyes popping from his skull, as he stared at the two nations standing casually in his examination room, one having just gotten out of a drawer after an autopsy with his heart removed.

"Wh-wh-what…how…?" he spluttered in amazement. Violet met sapphire as Russia and America cast each other sidelong glances, and Ivan saw now that a syringe was dangling from Alfred's right arm and he was wearing a hospital gown, scrubs, and a strait jacket dangling from his left arm. Russia himself was clad only in a flesh-colored towel wrapped around his waist. He felt warmth blossom in his cheeks.

"Uh," Alfred said helpfully. "Um, this all can be very easily explained, but how about instead you just get the bonus of a lifetime?" He walked carefully over to a bag discarded by the door, careful to keep his eyes on the astonished doctor the whole time. From it, he fished out a wallet and held out ten one-hundred dollar bills. The medical examiner stared at the money, then at America, then Russia, then back to America in a strange, optical dance, quite unsure where to look. Everyone waited with baited breath…

At long last, the medical examiner gingerly took the bills from America's hand, who gave him a winning smile straight from a Hollywood hit. With a gracious thumbs up, he said "That's my man!" before turning back to Russia, whose arms were folded as he shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, not really. This is my man," America amended, grinning in a way that made Russia roll his eyes, but smile in a satisfied sort of way. Leaning once more on America, they made their way towards the door, Alfred scooping their bag with all their belongings up in one easy movement.

"I'm really sorry, man," he said once they were outside of the hospital morgue. "Really, this was supposed to be an awesome night for us to just chill and get away from everything, and then you got killed."

"Nothing permanent," Russia said, waving Alfred's comment away with a flick of the hand. "I enjoy all the time we are able to have together." He saw Alfred's ears turn pink as the other ducked his head to hide his smile.

"Appreciate that, big guy. Especially given that you got crushed by some shitty hunk of metal." America winced. "Sorry," he could not help but add. They slid into the bathroom, where America separated their belongings and helped Russia back into his clothes from earlier, which were now quite ruined. Russia was quite astonished to see how much blood caked his shirt. Alfred's car would surely need cleaning on the inside, in addition to all the outer repairs.

"What happened to you though?" Russia asked, a pale eyebrow inching toward his hairline as he took in Alfred's own disheveled appearance. America tugged the syringe out of his arm with a grimace as he dove into his own pile of clothing.

"Ah, well, I kind of panicked when I heard you were down in the morgue- and had an autopsy, apparently. My reaction…caused some alarm." He averted his gaze. "They brought in security, I said some more stupid stuff, they thought I lost it, and tried to put me somewhere I couldn't hurt myself. So, one botched escape, a theft from the clothing cart, a temporary possession of a key card, some more escaping from security and clawing my way down here later, here I am!" He struck a pose reminiscent of Superman. "I tried to tell them you'd freak out down here if you were stuck somewhere cramped. Had to come get you out, didn't I?" His expression fell a little. "So, this was just all around a shitty date for you. Died, then had to face a phobia. I promise this isn't at all what I planned. What I had scheduled was much more awesome."

Russia stared, frozen, mouth parted in a small o. Alfred had fought off hospital personnel, thrown off being forced into a strait jacket, almost been injected with some unknown chemical, all because his first concern was how scared he thought Ivan would be waking up in a morgue drawer?

"Fedya, that…" He did not know what to say. Cleaning his throat, Ivan tried again. "That is one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me." It was his turn to try and put more into his statement than words could say. He met America's gaze, trying to let him know how much all of his struggles meant, how touched he was that Alfred remembered his fear and wanted to protect him from it. Sure, it was heroic streak, but Ivan felt certain it was something…more. Something related to the three words they murmured to each other when they met up after weeks apart, or said between goodnight kisses as they drifted off to sleep, or even on birthdays.

America's gaze softened, and he smiled serenely up at him. "Aw, shucks, Vanya, it was nothing," he said. "Had to be done. Couldn't let my man go through that." They both snickered appreciatively. Russia pressed a kiss to the crown of America's head, with Alfred quickly reciprocated on Russia's nose. With a chuckle, America pulled back and said, "So, uh, wanna try this date night again? We might still be able to be squeezed in to that restaurant. We have a rooftop seat- there'll be more stars out now since it's so late."

"That sounds lovely, solntse," Russia said with a smile. "Though, we will need to change…"

EARLIER THAT EVENING

"Commencing autopsy at 7:45 pm," the medical examiner said to the recorder placed nearby. "A Y-cut has already been performed. Chest cavity shows signs of severe blunt trauma from the collision and…" His brow furrowed. "There are signs of faint internal scarring, commonly associated with bullet wounds." The medical examiner probed further. "This is in addition to the intense presence of past lacerations circling the entire neck. Such a shame," he could not help but add. "He looks young. Barely older than 26." He sighed. "ID found on the crash victim names him Ivan Braginsky, born in Novgorod, current resident of the Russian Federation. A quick examination of the lungs indicates frequent smoking." Some more probing. "Yikes. The liver looks quite damaged. Oddly, though, the lungs as well as the liver seem as if they were…on the mend. And no other organs show signs of being affected by their damage. Although, the heart…now, that looks quite interesting. It seems almost battered, as if it were knocked around, but the abrasions and signs of trauma are not consistent with the crash. The victim also suffered a blow to the head, which has caused brain hemorrhaging. I'll be able to know more when I probe further. In the meantime, though, I have some more patients waiting in line, so we'll just put you back in here for now, Mr. Russian." He chuckled, though did not really feel any humor in the situation. It grew tiring working among the dead for so long. The man on his table looked young, fit, and had apparently been going on an outing with the driver who was currently a few floors up. How sad he would be to find his companion did not make it.

The medical examiner washed his hands, then went back over to look through the victim's belongings. He saw a mixture of American dollars and Russian rubles, a passport, a pack of cigarettes (almost empty), a rather old-looking lighter, a watch that also seemed quite old, and…and FSB credentials…? The medical examiner felt his face drain of color.

THE END

Notes: this was supposed to be something quick I could whip up, but it turned out a bit longer than anticipated. Ah well. Let me know what you think! If you have any suggestions, corrections, or reactions, I'd love to read them! I do not own Hetalia.