America sucked air through his teeth, cold and raw against his throat. Russia's words echoed in his mind, the same question he'd been both asking and smothering so many nights. Why was he still here? It wasn't a simple question that could be answered with a few sparse words, its explanation stretched on and on and on to a point where America just couldn't voice it.

He licked his lips, surprised to find them dry, parched, alien under his own tongue. "Don't know what you're talkin' about," was all he could muster for the moment.

"Really, America? You want to play this game?" Russia's voice was cold and lilting, a pale eyebrow raising to compliment his question.

America gave a petulant shrug as his shoulders tensed, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He didn't want to get into this with Russia. "Still don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Well," Russia purred, dark and calm. "You will have to play alone." He leaned in close, nearly mouthing his next words against America's skin. "You are free to fly away any time you'd like, my little bird."

America reared back, a shiver running down his back. "As if I'm going to fall for that," he mumbled darkly, surging forward and ducking around Russia. "Not even likely."

Russia's laugh crashed against America's ears as he made for his room, hurrying him into a jog and softening only when a slammed door was between them.

America made a noise between a sigh and a growl in the back of his throat, thick and rumbling. He didn't allow himself to relax until he'd amassed a barricade in front of his door, listening with an ear against the wood for footsteps. Even then, he sat on the edge of his bed, fully expecting to hear a knock, or the shriek of splintering wood as it got a metallic mouthful of pipe. When nothing of the sort happened, America's thoughts began to overwhelm his attentions.

Russia had just given him carte blanche to leave. To up and walk out of the door, stroll on down the road and off into the day as though nothing were holding him back. Which was the problem. It wasn't like his own neighborhood, where transit was as simple as standing at a bus stop and having some spare change. He was stuck in the middle of Ice Station Zero and he hadn't seen another living soul, save for his single day out.

He hadn't even seen any animals, which put him on edge whenever he paused to remember it. There were no raccoons chittering and fighting in the night, no faraway howls of dogs calling out to one another, not even the low hoot of owls. In the daytime, he could find no squirrels as he sat at his window, and bird song was absent in everyday life. To dwell where not even animals would not did not give him much confidence.

No animals meant no nearby running water, not that America thought he'd find anything thawed enough to drink from. It meant no food to forage for; nothing he could use to sustain himself. The only thing he had going for him was a wrinkled rucksack he'd stashed under the bed, but it was empty save for a tin of cookies and two bottles of water. Licking his dry lips again, America fished his rucksack out of its hiding place. If he was going to make a plan, he was going to need a bite to eat.

An uncomfortably full stomach and one bottle of water later, America had no plan. A shower, he figured, was in order. He always had good ideas in the shower. So he shimmied out of his clothes and hopped under a stream of steaming water, fully prepared to be struck with the perfect escape plan. But when he did emerge from the bathroom, pink and slippery-skinned, there was a set of car keys waiting on his bed where his rucksack had been.

America approached them with suspicion, reaching out with a tentative hand and half-expecting an invisible thread to tug them away. He snatched them up for inspection, knowing full well they'd start Russia's behemoth of a car. He checked the door, hardly needing to look to know the barricade he had been made was shoved aside, the effort of it having left shallow gouges in the floor.

Russia sure was sneaky when he wanted to be.

America tossed the keys up in the air, staring with interest as they fell back into his hand with a jangle. He could pull on some clothes and head off today, if he really wanted to. Chucking the keys on his pillowcase, America went to his dresser, rooting through it for the warmest clothes he could find. Experiencing the strange sensation of one rooting through a stranger's drawers, America found himself squinting as he searched.

The clothes didn't much look familiar to him. Sure there were his neon-orange socks with the holes in the heels, and there was the faded gray undershirt he always wore when the nights were too hot, but where was the poorly-knit and inappropriately festive Christmas sweater England had knit him? Not to mention the hoodie Canada had given him, the one faded to a funny maroon by too many washes and too many wears, was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the striped little number Russia had given America was all but too easy to find. America threw it to the floor and kept on searching, so engrossed he didn't even hear the open and close of the door as he continued to paw through drawer after drawer.

He settled on an old pair of jeans, the ones England had patched up more times than either of them could remember. He let his fingers trail along the stitches with a certain fondness, a warm smile curving his lips. It dampened a bit when he pulled on the dinky little striped thing he'd earlier discarded on the floor, but he couldn't deny that it kept him particularly warm. He pulled on a pale blue sweater to ward off most of the cold and hide Russia's shirt. To top it all off, he made for the closet to grab his jacket, eager to feel the familiar warmth of its fur collar and worn leather. Russia stopped him with a gentle clearing of his throat.

"Need something?" America asked gruffly, not looking up to see just where Russia was. That was what Russia wanted anyway; attention.

"No, but I was going to ask you the same thing."

At that, America did look up.

Russia was sitting on his bed with a strangely serene expression. In his lap was America's rucksack, now oddly stuffed and lumpy, and he seemed to take great pleasure in petting it, as though it were a cat curled in his lap.

"What'd you put in there?" America questioned warily, pulling his jacket from the closet and looking to the door. He really should have put the barricade back up when he had the chance.

"Rations, water, blankets."

"Okay. Now what did you really put in it?" Death adders, jumping spiders, and spitting lizards were America's guesses.

Russia repeated his previous response, opening the rucksack and offering America a look. America took him up on the offer, stalking closer and peering into the bag. It was just as Russia said, and America didn't like it one bit.

"Why are you doing this?"

Russia smiled innocently, his eyes bright and warm. "Doing what?"

"Giving me the keys to your car, makin' sure I've got lots of supplies. You know, all that stuff."

"To prove I am not keeping you here."

America cocked his head to the side before snatching up his rucksack, holding it to his chest like something precious. He still wasn't buying it, but if Russia was going to offer him the door, he'd see how far he could get. America wasted no time in stuffing extra clothes in what little space was left within his rucksack. Russia had managed to cram it pretty full, and had gone so far as to sneak a few candy bars in.

Hoisting the sack over his shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers, America clapped his hands and said, "Giddy on up, partner, you're coming with me." Judging by the way his neutral expression warmed with curiosity, America knew Russia hadn't been expecting an invitation.

The two of them dutifully trudged out to the dilapidated barn, America jumping with each footstep to cover as much ground as possible, Russia working at a leisurely stroll as though he were only fetching the newspaper. America yanked the barn doors open while performing a strange kind of dance, something born of happiness but also chill. While the snow had stopped, the temperature had seen no reason to rise. When the doors were open, America tossed the keys to Russia, who gave him a slightly perplexed look.

"I will not drive you to the airport," Russia said, a patronizing smoothness riding his words.

"Don't expect you to, just start that puppy up." America continued his shivering shuffle as he waited for Russia to start the two-ton beast, kept his eyes peeled for any possible explosions set to detonate when the engine warmed to life. His overactive imagination received no reward as Russia smoothly pulled out, sliding from the driver's seat to give the hood a fond pat.

"Well, shoot," America mumbled as Russia returned the keys and got behind the wheel. Rucksack filled with deadly creatures was a no go, as was booby-trapped car. There had to be something stopping him from leaving.

America's eyes narrowed as he looked over the dashboard. The gas was full, there were no inexplicable warning lights lit up, and the heater was working just fine. America made a beckoning motion with his hand and gestured for Russia to get in the car, who willingly obliged.

"I need directions," America said softly, begrudgingly. The way Russia grinned said he'd already known that. America made sure to get rid of it by pushing the pedal to the metal, the truck roaring to life as it lurched forward in a rush. Russia took the entire thing in stride, calmly buckling his seatbelt and proceeding to stare into the vast spread of white.

America wasn't doing so well himself.

Everything around him looked exactly the same. There was snow, lots of it, crunching under his wheels and licking the flanks of the truck. The tires seemed mostly to spin, rather than actually get him anywhere. The oncoming wall of trees did nothing to assuage his growing anxiety that this might all just be a bad dream. It certainly had the tense atmosphere of one.

"To the left," Russia prompted, clearly thinking America had every intention of ramming the trees head on. Which wasn't half wrong, seeing as how America was debating just the same thing, if only to see if he were still sleeping.

Instead, he slowed and looked to the left, skimming the thick wall of trees. There was a small patch where they thinned out, unnoticeable until he looked closely. America wasn't sure he could fit the truck through the clearing, but he gave it the old college try and managed to get through with a minimum of crushed saplings.

Beyond the clearing was another field of white, the same as the last, though the trees were off to the side, with nothing blocking America's path. The truck trundled along, America hardly bothering to keep it from sliding every which way. If he drove long enough, he'd get somewhere. Simple as that.

In the meantime, he watched Russia from the rear-view mirror. Or really, the bruise that was staring to bloom on Russia's cheek. He'd noticed it earlier, fleetingly, when Russia had been playing with his rucksack. It hadn't been so bad then, more of a light, questionable shade America associated with faded watercolors.

Now it was jarring and vivid. The mottled, intense colors of a lingering sunset, all deep purples and blues. With every glance America's gut churned. He really hadn't meant to hit Russia so hard. Not that he'd ever apologize for socking him one. Taking a page from England's book, America came up with the most roundabout apology he could manage.

"I shouldn't have really done that," he said under his breath.

"Done what?" Russia asked, but the amusement in his voice said he knew exactly what.

"That whole thing." America shrugged a shoulder at Russia.

"Ah, yes. That." Russia didn't sound particularly torn up over it. "It will not happen again."

"Nope," America agreed, slapping his palms against the steering wheel rhythmically. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The truck puttered along through field after field, and soon America was humming to himself to fill the silence. He'd stopped checking on Russia's bruise, he didn't think it was going to get better any time soon. Russia had to have known, when he was taunting America about his strength, that he could be on the receiving end of it. Russia always did plan ahead like that. Had that been his plan to begin with, to really find out if America still had the same power as before? That had been his question, but had it been a genuine one?

Well, he'd certainly gotten an answer.

"How much longer til we get there?" America bemoaned. He was already bored of thinking and driving.

"An hour. Turn left after that snowbank."

America floored it, bouncing around in the truck's cab as he sped along. "Make that forty-five minutes."

"Make that an hour and a half."

"Make that─wait, what? Why an hour and a half now?"

"Well, you said forty-five minutes. I thought we were making up times now," Russia said with the false innocence of the joking.

America rolled his eyes, but a small chuckle rumbled in his chest.

The sun steadily snuck its way between the clouds as America continued to drive. His mind warmed as the rays spilled into the car. His thoughts wandered, trotting easily along as he smiled to himself. Freedom. He was finally getting it back.

But it didn't feel well-earned.

Being free, yes. That was the important part. But America felt almost as though he'd been robbed of the victory, receiving the gift on a silver platter instead of fighting tooth and nail for it. He wanted to win it fair and square, not get it as some kind of pity prize or for whatever the heck reason Russia was handing it over for.

It was certainly odd that Russia had kept him locked up so long just to suddenly hand over the keys and kindly give him directions. He'd probably even ship America's belongings back to the States if asked nicely enough. The realization left a sour taste in America's mouth. He still didn't know why Russia had kidnapped him to begin with, not really.

Russia said himself if it was to pull off some political upset, America would already be free. Without that, America was at a loss for reasons. There'd been no attempt to pry secrets from him, blackmail him, or really... anything. No matter how he tried, America couldn't find the switch that had been flipped, the one that let him out. The only possible change was the fact he'd decked Russia. It seemed unlikely, though, that Russia was suddenly fearing for his health, especially with how he had started to hum along with America.

America cocked his head to the side, words slipping from his mouth before he could hold them back. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Why would I do that?" Russia settled back in his seat, the picture of patience.

"'Cause, like, y'know. I walloped you and all." America blinked a few times, eyes beginning to hurt from the unending onslaught of white.

"No."

"Then why?" America's foot eased from the pedal, slowing the car to a crawl.

Russia laughed to himself, the noise thick and full. His hand found its way to America's knee, gave a light, placating squeeze. He didn't answer America, though. Just picked up his humming again and let his hand linger. America played with the steering wheel as he chewed his lower lip until it threatened to bleed. He really didn't get it, and it was driving him mad.

It had to be the punch. There was no other explanation, he'd gone and messed up, so Russia was giving him the slip, figuring he could find someone better to keep him company and hang out with and do whatever the heck it was Russia did in his spare time. That was a still a mystery to America, which really didn't help.

Despite being locked up with the loon─no, not a loon, just a bit of an unbalanced man─America hadn't attempted to connect with him or befriend him in any way, even if it had happened naturally anyway. But the friendship was still new, lacking, not quite at the point he wanted it to be at. Not that he wanted to be buddy-buddy with a kidnapper, but these days, he was taking what he could get.

And what would he get back in the States? It was probably a good idea to find out about that too before heading back.

"It's different out there now, isn't it? I mean, the other guys haven't exactly been sitting around these past few months and twiddling their thumbs, right?" America ventured quietly, not really expecting a response.

"Correct."

"Okay, like, scale it. One to ten."

"You would be proud of your brother," was all Russia offered.

"Heck, I've always been proud of him. What's he up to these days, anyway?" A clumsy attempt at subtly.

"He surprises even me, I must admit. I thought he might step into your shoes, or at least attempt it, but I did not expect things to go as well as they have. He worries, though, like the rest of them, now that we are closer. And so he has become wary, despite his newfound spotlight."

"Whoa, hold up. He's wary of us? As in, me too?"

"Yes," Russia said, and if America didn't know better, he'd say it sounded almost apologetic. "They are all unsure."

America felt his drive crumbling with every word. Even if he came up with a decent excuse, it sounded like that was the least of his problems. The idea that Canada was now wary of him struck America like a physical blow, lingered in his bones like a cold ache.

America pictured the world he'd be coming home to. Everything he'd been told painted a strange, bewildering picture he'd never thought possible. A return to confederation days, the apparent absence of allies beyond Russia, and no one to lean on, not even his own brother. He was going to a world where he wasn't number one anymore, a world where no one trusted him. A world he didn't want.

America sunk back into his seat, shoulders hunching as he turned in on himself. He was already going back and he didn't have a story to tell. To speak the truth would be out of the question. It'd raise eyebrows and do nothing to help his relationship with Russia. America knew better than to cover for the galoot, but he had an undying belief that in all likelihood Russia didn't always know right from wrong. He was a big, lonely kid used to getting his way by generally looking dangerous.

So mentioning Russia was a no-no. America would have to think up a tale to tell and run through it for holes using only the time he had on his flight home. He ran through a quick list of common excuses. Not that there were many for disappearing off the face of the Earth.

He hardly went a minute before running out of options. He couldn't rely on the day-to-day excuses for not being around. Traffic jams, faulty directions, and his alarm clock not waking him up didn't account for months gone without so much as phoning anyone. Claiming to be kidnapped and held hostage until he initiated the lengthy tango of befriending his captor until being released hit too close to home. Being abducted by aliens was just something he wished would happen.

The more he thought about it, the less appealing that flight back was looking. Aiming to forestall his departure, America used the barely audible sound of Russia's growling stomach to form an idea.

"Lunch?" he proposed, though his appetite was absent.

"No, no, I would not want to keep you. I will eat after you leave."

America quieted; Russia was not to be swayed by food. America kept his tired eyes straight ahead, a far off road shimmering like a pool of water in the distance. He thought it to be some kind of mirage until a car zipped along it, quick and spunky.

"Uh, left or right?"

"Right."

America nodded and picked up the pace, his heart doing the same. His palms became damp and clammy as he neared the stretch of asphalt, and he pulled them from the wheel several times to wipe them on his jeans. He found that the closer he got to the road, the more anxious and jittery he became.

He still hadn't thought of an excuse for his absence yet. Not a good one, at least. Every scenario he ran through fell apart against his own questioning, and America knew that against the interrogation of others, his lies would be stripped bare. He chanced a glance at Russia, hovering on the brink of asking if he had any good ideas, but from the impassive, almost mask-like set of Russia's expression, America thought he might not have much to offer.

As the tarmac neared, America dwelled on the life he had now, and the one he would have in a dozen hours. One had endless amounts food and care, along with warm beds and late nights curled up in them, while the other was filled with confusion, an uncertain newness, and more responsibility than America was sure he could handle. It did have a boatload of freedom going for it, though.

Maybe he didn't have to choose. Or if he did, he could always change his mind. Russia had proven he was free to go, helped him along the way, made it clear America was allowed to skip town when the whim took him. And while America wasn't very keen on what was waiting to confront him back in the States, it would cool off after awhile. It had to.

Everyone would see that he and Russia meant no harm, that their alliance was only to protect themselves and not to take down others. Purely in their best interest, and not a threat of any sort. They'd learn to trust America again, even Russia if enough time passed. Then America could go back, face them all with a decent story and a smile on his face.

He just needed time. And he needed Russia to give it to him.

"Hypothetical question," America said, his foot settling on the brake only yards away from the road.

"Yes?"

"Say hypothetical-me wanted to hang around a bit longer, would hypothetical-you be down with that?"

"Yes."

"You mean it, or are you just being nice?" America questioned, his fingers toying with the keys that dangled from the ignition.

"I would welcome hypothetical-you into my hypothetical home indefinitely."

"Oh," America said calmly, allowing the truck to idle in the snow. He heard more than saw Russia as he undid his seatbelt and slid from the truck. America followed suit, leaving the warm interior to momentarily brave the icy outside air.

He met Russia in front of the grill of the car, their shoulders brushing together as they passed, hands glancing off one another's for a split second. America paused in his steps, looking over his shoulder to see Russia casting him one last look as well, something quiet and unreadable in his eyes, as though he were trying desperately to communicate without words, but America could not understand, though he yearned to.

He thought it might be gratitude, but for all America knew, it was his own thankfulness simply reflecting in Russia's eyes. But there was something else, cold and smooth and matted in that purple gaze. Something that made America wonder if Russia really would've let him go if they reached the airport, or if this was just a twisted test he'd managed to pass without realising.

America's thoughts turned to a white, unimportant static when Russia smiled at him, all funny and lopsided, like he wasn't used to doing it so much and the act was starting to task him. America's heart faltered for a moment at the sight, skipped a step like it was playing hop-scotch. His fingers twitched of their own accord, his muscles quietly aching to pull Russia close and just feel him. Feel the way he smiled in that strange little way, feel the way his heart beat sure and steady within his chest.

But he couldn't, because that wasn't how things worked. England had taught him that. The world might say the easiest way to get things you wanted was to come right out with it, but England had shown America, however unwittingly, that no amount of asking or pleading, not even foot-stomping and crying, would keep someone with you, would make them hold you close. Nothing could ever stop England from setting sail.

America sighed and shook his head, flashing a weak, forced grin before going around to the passenger side and climbing in. Russia had already slid behind the wheel and was watching him, eyes still conversational but unreadable. He looked to be on the verge of speaking, but America had no idea of how to push him. He just waited, quietly, patiently, until Russia seemed to think better of it, and turned his attentions to the truck.

"Thanks for taking over," America said as he let his eyes slip shut, resting them for a moment, not quite sure if he was referring to something beyond driving.

"I do not mind," Russia said softly.

And with that same softness, he reached out and brushed the back of his hand along America's cheek, tender and kind and only too reassuring. With a sweet sigh and a flutter of his lashes, America leaned into the touch, nearly purring at the contact. He found himself sidling nearer to Russia, thinking of how easy he was to get close to, and how easily he seemed to tolerate America.

He really wasn't like England at all, was he? England, who was always saying he'd be back in just a few weeks, really meaning just a few months. England, who didn't understand that children and adults alike needed affection, to be held and cared for without asking for it, and then being too stiff and unsure of how to give it. Not that America held it against England. That was what made England, well, England.

But Russia didn't need to be told. He knew what to give, when to give it, and how to be close without overbearing─ or at least, he was getting better at that. He knew that America needed a certain closeness, almost always, and wasn't shy about offering it without words, like how he allowed America to rest a head on his shoulder without question, as he was doing now.

And so, with the two of them content with the change of plans, Russia drove them home as America dozed on and off, rocked by the swaying of the car, his greatest concern being whether or not the power was back on, and if Russia was in the mood to watch some movies.

A/N:

-AMERICA. Really. Really? Way to be a bimbo. King Bimbo. Archbishop of Bimbobury. Just because your captor hugs you and is nice and lets you kick your feet back and relax doesn't mean you should hang around.

But that's okay, really, it is. It's not like you can hide from the rest of the world forever.

Ohhh, yeah.

As always, people who point out typos and grammatical problems get my eternal gratitude!