I do not own Hetalia, Parliament, the Russian government, the Navy, the Secret Service, Syria, or anything else mentioned in here.
Rated T for swearing and implied sexy times.
"Arrival time is estimated to be 7:05. The current temperature in Moscow is negative seventeen degrees Celsius. We expect a smooth landing and transition, please fasten your seatbelts and return your seat and trays to the upright position. Thank you for flying Aeroflot Russian Airways." A man's voice crackled over the intercom dispersed throughout the cabin. Murmurs spread like wildfire in the spacious compartment as the passengers complied with the pilot's wishes, most looking out of the window to catch a glimpse of the Russian capital through the darkening night. It only served to make a certain Englishman's headache worsen, especially as the hiss of dropping cabin pressure filled the cabin.
It wasn't that he was cramped or crowded, not at all, especially since Parliament tended to pay for first class flights for diplomatic purposes. It was the stacks of paperwork and documents that he had poured over during his flight to help him understand exactly what he was about to walk into – which as it turned out, to be nothing more than a international disaster. Which was why he was on a flight to Moscow in the middle of November to try to negotiate some sense with his fellow U.N. counterparts over this whole Syrian disaster. Utter bollocks if you asked him. Unfortunately, there was no room for his opinion, only that of the United Kingdom in this matter which was essentially just a political cockfight between a bunch of supreme rulers of powerful countries. Bloody Americans.
Speaking of Americans, the British diplomat pulled out a small file from his briefcase and glanced over it once again. He was supposed to be meeting the bodyguard assigned to him when he arrived at Sheremetyevo. From the looks of it, he had deemed the man's resume as impressive and that he fit the bill of bodyguard, but why did he have to be American? Thankfully, he wasn't stuck with some former KGB, but they could've at least had given him someone who spoke the same language? Instead, he was to be stuck with someone who spoke the abominable slaughter of his mother tongue that the Americans claimed to be English.
To be entirely truthful though, the Brit didn't expect much in the way of his bodyguard. According to the file he was given, he was being given a former Navy Sniper who served in the Secret Service during the former President's term, but to be honest, he wouldn't have been surprised if the man was every ounce of American stereotype: overweight, out of shape, and obnoxious. But who knows? He could also get the German militant-type that would scare the shit out of him at every given moment. The possibilities were endless. In the end however, Arthur Kirkland, diplomat and "peacetalker" for Britain didn't have much hope for his American bodyguard. For the remainder of his descent, the blonde-haired Englishman amused himself with images of what his bodyguard would look like, chuckling to himself when he finally decided on a horrifying unattractive former sniper who liked to live in his past glory days and recount the stories about the vast amounts of terrorists that he took down.
Exiting his plane and traversing into a private terminal, green eyes scanned the various occupants. A small smirk had crept into the corners of his lips as he looked about for the man he had envisioned and then found him sitting in a plastic chair, his eyes glued to his phone. The man looked every part of what Arthur had imagined from the poorly tailored suit to the thinning black hair that had been combed back on his head to hide a balding spot. Needless to say, the Brit felt slightly overdressed in black suit, covered neatly by a tan coat with the hint of Burberry scarf peeking out from the hem of his coat, but he was British, so what did he care?
Making his way slowly towards his bodyguard, who was completely engrossed in his phone, he checked around the room at the different people, curious to see if he would recognize any other diplomats. Instead of finding Francis or anyone else he had come to know over the years, his gaze landed on a very handsome young man who stood near the private bar, a nearly empty tumbler held carefully in his hand as the bluest eyes Arthur had ever seen scanned the room. Messy blonde hair that was a shade lighter than Arthur's own, wire-rimmed glasses, and a neatly tailored black suit complete with a striped grey shirt and black tie that screamed power and authority. His face was young, possibly younger than the Brit's own thirty-something years, but those bright eyes showed years of experience.
Secretly, Arthur prayed to any power that be that this young man was another diplomat so that he would have a reason to get to know him; for diplomatic purposes. A rough voice, speaking in a heavy Russian accent called across the room, pulling his attention away from the dashing young man and to the source of the voice. It belonged to his bodyguard, or the man that Arthur had thought was his bodyguard, as the large man pulled his phone to his ear and began to speak rapidly before excusing himself from the room. With a scowl, Arthur looked around the room only to have his gaze drift back towards the young man by the bar and be met by those astonishingly blue eyes. The man was smiling gently at him, watching him with a curious gaze before he pulled a phone from his pocket. Checking it briefly, his smiled widened as he set his glass on the bar and slowly made his way towards the Englishman, blue eyes evaluating him the entire way.
Once he was much closer, Arthur realized with a small amount of internal delight that he had to actually tilt his chin upwards to be able to meet the other man's gaze, his own scowl being replaced by a coy smile. The other blonde stopped a professional distance away, cocking his head to the side and a furrow of thin blonde brows.
"Mr. Kirkland?" He asked; his voice rich, and much to Arthur's surprise, very American. At this, the Englishman's impressive eyebrows shot up into his hairline, looking the very image of taken aback. "Yes?"
A crooked smile spread into the other man's lips as he held out his hand towards the Brit, straightening his posture subconsciously to one that screamed authority. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. I'm Alfred F. Jones. I've been assigned to accompany you during your stay in Moscow."
Never had Arthur Kirkland been more wrong about anything in his entire life.
As it had turned out, Alfred F. Jones was the extreme opposite of what Arthur had imagined his bodyguard to be. Of course, that isn't to say that the American couldn't be a sarcastic little shit when he wanted to be or extremely childish about trivial matters, but he was the very appearance of a former Secret Service agent. Arthur had come to find out during his short stay for the negotiations that Alfred, or Al as he liked to the be called, was in his early thirties, single, spoke Russian fluently, and had been moved to the American Embassy in Moscow as protection detail at the end of the former President's term. He also liked comic books and black and white movies, loved to cook (but hated English food - the bastard), and had a half-brother who was a medical researcher in Canada. He had also played football in High School in Virginia and through the Navy had a degree in Foreign Affairs, which was how he was fortunate enough to work for the American Embassy.
Needless to say, Alfred accompanied him everywhere – driving him from the hotel to the peace talks, fetching him food or driving him to dinner, and even showing him around some of the sights in the Russian capital. It was almost as if the fates had conspired against the Englishman as he used different excuses to stay around his American bodyguard instead of joining the other ambassadors and diplomats for drinks or dinner. Of course, the universe would laugh at him and put the perfect man within his grasp and he would of course, be straight.
What gave Arthur this assumption was that as Alfred had been showing him the Red Square, he was practically attacked by a beautiful woman with a massive chest who blabbered excitedly in Russian, then proceeded to kiss him fervently on the cheek before making him promise something in Russian, only to bound away a large grin on her face. The American looked decidedly confused, but cheerful as they continued their tour of the Red Square, entirely oblivious to the change of demeanor in the British diplomat.
It wasn't until dinner that night when Arthur offhandedly asked him how he had come to learn Russian so fluently that the former sniper sheepishly mentioned that he had a Russian boyfriend throughout high school who taught him the language. Which he ad used to his advantage during the Navy and that it was actually that particular ex who had recommended him as the protection detail for the Embassy. Arthur had probed further about the ex, heart fluttering in excitement as he learned that the two see each other often as friends, but Ivan (his name was apparently) was seeing a Chinese man named Yao and Alfred couldn't have been happier for him. It was then that Arthur mentioned his own previous relationship with a French diplomat whom he still worked with, that turned out to be a better friendship than relationship; swirling his scotch glass over his empty plate as he assured the American that he perfectly understood the complexity of the situation. And he certainly didn't miss the predatory smile that crossed the other blonde's face as he released this information.
With the peace talks coming to an end and tensions running high (especially since Arthur had lost his temper and shouted at one of the Americans for being utterly daft), Arthur Kirkland found that he had actually enjoyed his time in Moscow for once and that he was actually a bit miffed that it was coming to an end. He had a flight back to Heathrow scheduled for the morning so that he would have time to talk with Mr. Cameron before heading home to a nice cuppa. That was to say, he had enjoyed his time there as much as he could, but given that he had the perfect man in front of him who was practically perfect in nearly every sense (the man could be a downright idiot at times with an unhealthy obsession with McDonalds), but every time he attempted to make a move, he was cock-blocked by the American himself. In fact, Arthur was on the verge of pulling his own hair out and taking the man by force, even though with the former agent's build he knew that idea was virtually impossible.
By the morning of his departure, Arthur Kirkland was in the same foul mood that he had been in when he arrived in Moscow and he was certainly ready to get the American tease out of his hair. Unfortunately for him, Alfred had still been on duty and had to escort him to the airport and to his private terminal. They had arrived an hour early to ensure that the Brit's luggage had been checked in and that he had everything there for his flight home. Alfred on the other hand, continuously checked his phone once they had gotten Arthur's baggage in, seeming to bounce with some sort of unseen anticipation until the Englishman sat down with a huff at the bar and shot him the more piercing glare that he could muster.
He had ordered a scotch on the rocks and was about to take a drink before he heard a loud 'whoop' emit from the other blonde's mouth and his hand was snatched away from his drink and he was dragged towards the private restroom. Arthur barely had the time to register what was happening before he was thrust into the bathroom unceremoniously, the door being locked quickly behind him. Whirling around on his bodyguard, the Brit opened his mouth to verbally abuse the American, but he was effectively silence by a pair of lips locking onto his own. His smaller body was shoved roughly against the door to the restroom and a pair of rough hands tangled in his hand as he was snogged desperately like the other's life depended on it. Arthur stood there in shock, taking the assault of the other's mouth on his own before he finally collected his thoughts and shoved the other away, staring incredulously with mussed hair and swollen lips.
"What the fuck?!" He shouted, throwing his hands up in the air as the sheepishly smiling American. The other was panting slightly, his cheeks burning pink and lips swollen as well as something else swollen on his body. "You ignore me every time I make a move on you and then as I'm about to get on a flight back to London you think it's perfectly sensible to snog me?!" Arthur shouted, reaching out a pale hand to slap at the other who easily dodged it before moving in with a militant accuracy as he pinned the Englishman's wrists to the door above his head. Leaning into him, the other's breath blew hot over Arthur's ear and jawline before slowly tracing his tongue along the shell of his ear.
"I've been on duty until now." He growled, pressing his body into Arthur's before pulling his face back enough to lock gazes with an intensity that sent a small shiver down the Brit's spine. "Do you really think that I haven't noticed? Or that I haven't wanted you?" He growled, turning his head slightly to the side as he kissed the corner of the Englishman's mouth with a gentleness that contradicted his other physical reactions. "Do you know how hard it is to not just throw everything away just so I can have you?" He asked, turning his head the opposite way to the kiss the other side of Arthur's mouth. Warmth pooled in Arthur's lower abdomen as he tried to turn his head to capture the American's mouth as he kissed the corner of his lips, muttering a weak "yes".
"As of now, I am no longer your bodyguard." Alfred continued, smiling deviously as he lowered his head to look at Arthur through his eyelashes. A smug smirk spread over Arthur's features as he pressed his body back into the American's and pressed his lips to the others in a ravenous kiss. He did have an hour to kill.
The flight back to London was nothing more than a delirious blur as Arthur revealed in the haze and afterglow of an incredible round of sex with an astoundingly attractive American who was even more attractive with his clothes off. He had managed to finish his paperwork before landing and hardly registered his talk with the Prime Minister as he briefed him about everything that had happened during the Moscow conference. Mr. Cameron sighed and mumbled things along the lines of "bloody Americans", "bloody Syrians", and "damn Russians" throughout the briefing, but released Arthur quickly, assuring him that he agreed with the Englishman's opinion of the whole matter and thanked him for a job well done. When it was all said and done, Arthur headed home and sat down to the nice cuppa that he had planned on enjoying. However, his beloved tea didn't have the same taste as he sipped away at it, trying to preoccupy himself with a Tolstoy book.
It was only a few days later when Arthur received a message asking if he wouldn't mind going to sit in on another conference between the U.S. and Russia over the whole Syrian matter as a neutral source. Needless to say, he didn't bother hesitating.
Ending kind of sucked, but I just wanted to be done with it.
I have no say on the Syrian matter, so don't start a political argument with me.
Inspired by the cover picture, which I couldn't find the source ( I tried). Short little one shot for the New Year. Read and review, reviews make me happy.