Kinda surprised by the positive response to this thing, ehehe. I kinda feel like the second half disappoints…

It wasn't my intention to make Alfie totally unredeemable, but considering the story is told through Ivan's point of view, it sort of comes across that way. Also, it's the only way that Ivan can really….justify the actions that he takes.

Pairing wise? There's no real pairings, it was just a random twoshot I thought of. Though it was originally going to be kinda RusAme-ish, but i dunno…this happened instead. Ugh. I'm kind of frustrated with this. It doesn't even seem like a Hetalia story. Sigh.

So, on to the final part, in which Ivan deals with a person like Alfred the only way he knows how.

Ivan feels the gun, a TT-80, that is tucked into the waistband under his coat. It is a habit, a tic ingrained in him from an early age, just to make sure his faithful companion is always there.

"Hey! Yo, Ivan!"

Ivan looks up to see a young blonde boy bobbing across the cracked lot towards him. The lot was were Ivan held many of his business negotiations, as it was away from any nearby houses and surrounded by trees and brush. It was peaceful, and most of the time Ivan enjoyed even just standing around, eyes closed.

But the appearance of Alfred Jones immediately shatters any calm emotion that Ivan has.

Alfred stops his exuberant jog a few steps away from Ivan, hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket, worn over a bright blue shirt with the Superman logo on it.

"What's up, dude?" He raises his hand in a high five that Ivan does not return.

Alfred lowers his hand, realizing that Ivan is in the mood for nothing other than business. He shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets.

"Do you have it?"

Ivan gives a curt nod.

"I do."

Alfred claps his hands together and smiles. Ivan raises his eyebrows. He didn't know if Alfred's increased exuberance was a result of his abuse, or if the boy is just naturally hyper. Perhaps it is a combination of both.

Ivan holds out his hand.

"Half a gram is fifty, one hundred for the full."

Alfred snorts, and Ivan's face twitches.

"I don't have any money, dude, you know that."

"I see. Then what are we doing here, Jones?"

Alfred again flashes his prize winning and oh so fake smile.

"I said I didn't have money. I got something better."

Alfred reaches into his pocket and pulls out something, dropping it into Ivan's outstretched palm, the metal cool even against Ivan's naturally chilled skin.

The sun dying behind the trees glints off the golden ring settled into his palm. Ivan felt a heat rise up in his chest.

Ivan holds the band up closer. He can see something engraved on the interior curve, lovingly etched in cursive.

My love, my life, my everything. Amelia E. Jones, 7/4/82.

Ivan feels his stomach curl with some uncontrollable emotion that is threatening to roil to his surface.

Ivan looks up to Alfred, still smiling expectantly, the Russian boy's eyes flat and cold.

"Last time, Jones, I am remembering telling you that I did not want to see anymore jewelry."

But Alfred reaches out and taps at the band, his grin growing more cat-like.

"Yeah, well this is different! It's got like, sentimental value, and stuff. And besides, I think it's the real deal! 24 carat gold, that 'lil sucker."

Ivan throws the wedding band back at Alfred, no longer trying to contain the rage in his strange purple eyes.

"I will not be taking this, Jones."

Alfred tries to catch the band but it clinks to the asphalt. Ivan's words sink in, and he looks up. Desperation sudden enters Alfred's eyes at the notion of a denied high.

"B-But dude, you don't get it, I'm all outta money, I've pawned away almost everything in my house, and I don't want to turn to stealin' bro, 'cause I'm not good at it and I'm really fucking clumsy— "

"I do not want to be hearing your pathetic stories and excuses. If you do not have any money then I have no business with you. I will be taking to leave."

Ivan brushes past Alfred with no lack of strength, pushing the boy harshly out of his way. His emotions are about to boil over.

He needs to get out of here and away from Alfred before either of them do anything stupid. Before Ivan decides to do what he's always wanted to do to Alfred.

There's a shuffling of feet and and a low growl behind him that pricks at Ivan's ears.

He hears a metallic click and barely has time to turn around as Alfred lunges at him, blur of a black pocketknife in hand.

Ivan snarls and makes to move for the TT-80, a gift from his father, from under his shirt but Alfred is upon him and Ivan has to use his hand to grab at Alfred's knife wielding arm as the boy seizes the other. Both hands locked together, Ivan growls as he feels himself being pushed back; Alfred had a strength that his body type belied, maddened by his denied high—

Alfred pushes down with his knife arm until the tip is hovering above Ivan's nose, who clenches his teeth and tries to force the shorter boy away, to disarm him—

Using his height and significant bulk to his advantage, Ivan tugs Alfred upwards, making him lose his balance, before grabbing his wrist tightly and twisting it, causing Alfred to shriek and drop the knife.

Ivan shoves Alfred away hard in the chest, but the blonde merely growls, clenching his fists and approaching the Russian boy again.

"You fucking dick— " He raises a fist, intending to slam it into the taller boy's face.

But Ivan knocks Alfred to the ground with a swift punch to the stomach, the blonde crying out in pain as his back and elbows hit the pavement hard.

"You fucking asshole, you fucking son of a— "

Alfred freezes, eyes drawn to the barrel of the TT-80 that Ivan has pulled from his waistband. The Russian is pointing it, unflinchingly, towards the downed man, no, not even a man, merely a child, a cowardly, unworthy, cowardly child—

Ivan feels a flare of anger and he shoots once, hitting Alfred in the shoulder, making him scream as the hot lead tore through his jacket and into his body. And it was that one shot, the one shot that wasn't even fatal, that sealed the young blonde's fate.

Ivan was the son of the Bratva. He knew not to leave unfinished business. But Ivan himself knew the conflict that arose between killing someone and letting them go. He knew Alfred, despite all his bravado, was nothing but a coward inside, a coward who had turned to stealing his mother's jewelry to pay for his fix. He knew that his shot had hurt and scared Alfred, who was now letting tears of pain fall down his terrified face. The terrified, pathetic side of Alfred would learn his lesson, would never speak of what happened, would never try to cross Ivan again.

But Ivan also knew of another side to Alfred. He knew that Alfred liked to put on a brave face, to stand up in the name of justice, even if his personal life was less than lustrous. He may also decide to tell the police, to demonize Ivan, and set himself up as the hero who saved the small town from the filthy, drug dealing Russian. Ivan smirked. Alfred would make a great politician, perhaps even a great president.

нet, correction. Would have made.

Ivan continues to stare at Alfred, who has turned onto his stomach and is trying to drag himself, nails curling into the cracked asphalt as he tries to pull away from Ivan, who has lowered his gun by a fraction. Sobs and strings of curses emit from the boy as he clutches his shoulder tightly, looking over it to stare at the ominous Russian with tearful, terrified eyes.

Ivan takes a few steps forward and straddles Alfred's body, staring down hard at the quivery boy. He takes a booted foot and presses through Alfred's fingers into the wound on his shoulder, causing the blonde to scream again.

To think that this piece of trash could come from a woman who was so good and kind was sickening.

Ivan grabs a handful of Alfred's hair and pulls him up to his knees, the bare skin under his torn jeans scraping against the asphalt. Alfred's scream has dissolved into small sobs, he clutches at himself tightly as he feels Ivan's harsh fingers tug at his head.

"I-van— stop— "

Ivan presses the barrel of the gun to the back of Alfred's head. The boy's breath hitches at the feeling of cool metal against his scalp.

"I-Ivan…Ivan, please, please don't…" The fear is painfully evident in the usually cheerful voice as he begs.

Ivan silences any more pleas by pressing the gun harder against Alfred's head and seizing his injured arm, twisting it behind him.

Alfred doesn't scream again but lets out a loud sob, squirming frantically against the grip Ivan has on his arm, intense pain shooting up his limbs.

Why did Ms. Jones have to rely on such a coward? Why did Ms. Jones have to suffer because of a filthy liar who happened to be her son?

Ivan lets Alfred alone for a moment, listening as the boy's sobs slowly degenerates into quiet moans and choked cries. Eventually, Alfred begins to speak quietly, whimpering through the pain. Ivan cocks his head, sensitive ears picking up what Alfred was saying.

"M-mom…Mom, help me…please."

Ivan's chest tightens in both anger and pity at the pathetic boy, begging for his life and crying for his mother before him.

Alfred degenerates even more, body crumpling into the asphalt, only held up by Ivan's fingers twisted in his hair.

"Mommy…please….p-please…I'm sorry….I'm s-so sorry…"

Ivan twists Alfred's arm further back, causing him to moan in pain. He grits his teeth, trying to silence Alfred with agony, but the boy continues his broken cries.

"Mom…please…"

Ivan audibly snarls, yanking Alfred's head back hard into the gun barrel. He clicks the chamber, the next bullet sliding into place. Alfred cries a little louder at the sound, utter panic and terror making him numb and weak.

"P-please….Mom…I'm sorry…I…I lo— "

Ivan pulls the trigger and the back of Alfred's head explodes in a shower of blood and brain matter.

The force of the shot sends the body toppling forward, Ivan releasing the spasming arm as Alfred's forehead smacked wetly against the asphalt.

Ivan stands still for only a moment, before tucking the hot pistol back into his waistband. He sighs and closes his eyes. He feels release. He feels relieved. He had done what Ms. Jones had never been able to do. He had punished Alfred.

He had saved her from a life taking care of this coward.

He turns over Alfred's body with his foot, getting a look at the boy's face. The bullet had made a nice, clean hole through his forehead, dripping rivulets of blood that mixed in with the soft tears still running from those wide, rheumy blue eyes.

Ivan catches his breath, realizing that, when not moving his obnoxious mouth, the boy looks much like his mother. Same blue eyes, same golden hair, same facial structure, same nose and lips. Same need for glasses. Everything is the same, save for the fact that Alfred now has a hole plowed through his skull.

Ivan grimaces, realizing that it was never something that he will have. He will never look like Alfred, never look like Ms. Jones son.

He grits his teeth as he recalled the words that he had cut Alfred off from speaking.

I love you.

Ivan growls audibly and kicks the body before him in the side.

No. He did not. He did not love her.

White hot anger flares again and Ivan rears back and slams the heel of his boot into Alfred's bleeding face, smashing the corpse's nose in. He raises his foot again and again, breaking Alfred's glasses, finally kicking at the head and leaving Alfred's jaw unhinged as he steps back, attempting to calm his breathing.

Alfred's face looks as if a cherry pie had hit it. Ivan feels a twinge of bitter vindication and triumph as he stares at the boy's ruined face.

He did not look very much like her anymore.

Ivan would have to dispose of the body somehow. There is a river nearby, he could throw the corpse in there. Or he could burn it.

Of course, the lot itself is out of the way, on the outskirts of town. Ivan doubts they would find Alfred within a day. And by then, Ivan would be long gone.

Before he leaves, he leans down by Alfred's head, next to a circular crack in the asphalt. After a few moments of prying, Ivan extricates the crumpled bullet, still coated in blood. He puts it into his coat pocket, right next to the small bag of crystal. As he is bent, another thing catches his eye. A little golden band, stained with Alfred's blood, sitting a little ways away. Ivan picks it up reverently, wiping the blood off onto his scarf.

The wedding band joins the bullet and the meth in his pocket.

Um. Okay. This is dark. Even for me. I'm actually a little scared that I wrote this…. /is nervous

Both of these guys break my heart in this story! Even though Vanya's a murderer and Al's an asshole.

For some reason I've been wanting to write Ivan shooting Alfred execution style for a while. I'm really a terrible person for always killing America, poor baby. Someone give him a hug.

Ah…okay, no more RusAme angst for awhile now. I have some fluff lined up that I'm going to post later today.