American Trains
Chapter 25: Loneliness
so here we are. Not much to say. Thanks all who enjoyed my smut skills. It's late, im tired, so for the last chapter (after this one) I'll properly address reviews.
Read, enjoy, and see you at the bottom A/N.
Beta'd by the wonderful Kay (Kay the Beta)!
Arthur woke the next morning a bit sore, but entirely warm and content. He yawned lightly and nuzzled closer against the cowboy he lay beside. His sleep hazed green orbs watched the slow rise and fall of Alfred's chest as the cowboy slept easily.
The Brit tried to shift himself more comfortably, having been twisted awkwardly during their sleep, but at the sharp inner pain splitting down his lower back, tracing down all the way to his cramped thigh muscles. Instantly, he dug his nails in pain into the yielding flesh beside him, rousing the cowboy from his slumber.
Alfred groaned and let his eyes flicker open before his lips parted in an early morning yawn. His blue gaze alighted to the short nails burrowed into his skin, and moved his vice-held arm, signaling Arthur to his waking state.
The emerald-eyed man furrowed his brows, a bit embarrassed by his rather sore lower body and grumbled something akin to a morning greeting against the American's chest.
"Huh?" The sleepy-eyed cowboy questioned, raising his hand to rub sleep from his eyes and then to fix his crooked glasses.
"I said 'good morning,' you twit!" Arthur grumbled again.
"Well, morning to ya too." The cowboy returned in good nature and moved to prop on his elbow. Arthur refused to move however, unwilling to agitate his already aching body and Alfred questioned him with a cocked eyebrow.
"Sore." The shorter responded quickly, trying to keep his voice even. The cowboy broke out into a brilliant grin and chuckled softly as understanding dawned on him.
"Sorry 'bout that."
"I do believe it was well worth it."
Alfred shook his head slowly and moved as if to rise but was halted by Arthur coiling a slender arm around his waist. He pulled the blue-eyed American down and closer to him. Clearly Arthur wasn't about to get up, nor let his lover escape.
The cowboy pondered it for only a moment before he sunk back down to the mattress and allotted himself a little extra time to snuggle with the clingy Brit.
Those few extra moments turned into extra hours as Alfred rationalized it would be all right to catch some extra sleep after their hot night and its predecessor: their arduous journey.
Arthur certainly didn't complain when the American drifted back to sleep, allowing him time to avoid movement.
He toyed with the stray strands of wheat-gold hair that splayed across Alfred's cheek as he dozed and eventually found himself drifting back into darkness, seduced by the ease on his mind and the welcoming warmth surrounding them.
They spent the next four days repeating the same motion of sleeping in beside each other as the lull of their crazed lives trailed on to incorporate a few days of rest, drinking and just enjoying each other.
Each late morning after sleeping comfortably, they would rise and stretch their limbs by walking about the busy streets of Kansas City on the notion that the American hated staying cooped up too long. Alfred had been reluctant to leave his carbine in the room at first, but had eventually allowed Arthur to lead him about the city as if he already knew it. The Brit didn't seem to mind slinking through back alleys and narrow, dark streets either as they wandered aimlessly. It unnerved the cowboy some, but if Arthur was more comfortable this way, that was just fine with him.
They never strayed too far from the State-line, nor did they stay out too long, due to Alfred's bad leg. Also, Roderich didn't seem to like them straying far, claiming it did hamper his ability to watch their backs if he couldn't find them.
On the fifth day, however, they had decided not to walk the city and instead stay the afternoon in their appointed room. The time had gone by rather quickly; the sun was already changing to scarlet and staining the sky.
Arthur lounged on their bed, flank to the mattress and arm draped over the side, looking like a long house cat lazily splayed out like that.
Alfred was seated at the iron and wood table, cleaning his beloved carbine with a spare rag. He was shining the barrel when a knock on the door sounded.
The table was close enough to the door that the cowboy could simply lean back, and twisted his arm to turn the knob and let the door swing open.
Roderich stepped in, looking serious as ever, and leaned against the doorframe.
"Did my mutts ever plan on leaving their kennel today?"
The dog references had grated on the fugitives' nerves for the first day or so, but somehow had become acceptable and almost endearing when used by the older, violet-eyed man.
Alfred smiled back at Roderich.
"Yeah, jus' comin' down for supper, actually. I'm hungry."
Arthur made a soft noise in his throat and cocked a thick brow.
"I'm not surprised by that, brute." Arthur commented wryly, arching to stretch and roll to his side.
The musician heaved a sigh and backed from the room.
"Just hurry up, would you?"
He finished and waltzed from the door.
Alfred moved to stand, before Arthur clicked his tongue to catch the cowboy's attention. He blinked curiously to the Brit.
"Stay where you are, git."
"How come?"
"I need to change the bandage on your shoulder." Arthur explained and rose from the bed, then knelt beside it to fish for the roll of bandages that hid in the darkness under the bed.
Alfred whined softly, but the Brit hushed him with a severe look that dared the American to protest again.
Arthur rose to full height, pulled up the heavy chair beside Alfred, and seated himself neatly on it with his knees bumping the taller's.
Alfred undid the buttons on his slate grey shirt, which had been washed and patched by Roderich himself, and slid the fabric off, casting it behind him on the chair back while his companion unrolled a long strip of the woven white material.
Working efficiently, Arthur had the old bandage from two nights prior off and cast to the other side of the table. He dabbed away the non-existent dirt particles, then wrapped the stitching afresh in a matter of minutes.
He clapped the American's chest with a playful shove as he finished.
"There, now cease with your pouting; you look like a child." He grumbled, but lightened some as Alfred's expression turned up into a brilliant smile.
"C'mon, Artie!" he chimed, rising from his seat and grabbing his carbine.
"Why are you bringing that? It's perfectly safe downstairs."
"Sure is. Ain't so out there in the night though." Alfred stated matter-of-factly.
The Brit looked up at the cowboy as said man placed his shirt back on his shoulders and buttoned it up. He cocked a brow in question.
"I figured we'd find someplace to eat, y'know, some place nice. Don't ya thoroughbreds like nice places?"
Arthur barked a bit of laughter.
"You forget, I only look like a gentleman, it doesn't mean I was raised as one. Perhaps I aspire, dear brute."
The blue-eyed cowboy shrugged.
"I just figured." He trailed off and Arthur moved past him, brushing his shoulder and letting his lips curl up in a sly smile that made Alfred tint with a faint blush.
"I do appreciate it, however. Now come along. Wouldn't want to disappoint you, now would I?"
Alfred shook his head and adjusted the carbine on his shoulder as he followed Arthur out and down the small, narrow flight of stairs into the State-line's grand room.
They were greeted by the cacophonic sound of various wild, drunken conversations, glasses clinking and thudding, card games being played and all of it strangely coiled with the airy melody of Roderich at the piano, playing some long and happy tune.
Alfred waved to him over the crowd and motioned to the door. The musician nodded quickly, never missing a single keystroke as he played.
The two exited the State-line's boisterous air and entered into the much chillier windswept night of the Kansas City streets.
Arthur felt a chill shoot down his spine, and found it odd. The night wasn't that cold, and he was still close to Alfred, actually brushing him; the American practically radiated warmth. No, this wasn't a cold shiver. It felt almost ominous, evil even.
Alfred didn't seem to notice the shadowy chill in the air, but Arthur's shiver did register against him and he glanced to his companion.
"Ya cold, Artie?" he inquired as they walked, still keeping a tight hold on the carbine's strap.
"I'm fine, Alfred." The emerald-eyed blond dismissed, shaking off the feeling as best he could.
They walked for quite sometime, until the sun had vanished completely and left the sky stripped of light, save for the full moon, which left glittering silver beams to outline their way. As they were walking past the Pacific hump yard that sat close to the station a soft sound caught Alfred's attention.
He looked up, only to be met with fiery flashy of gunfire in the dark and the massive, sharp bang of a shot being fired.
The shot missed, slamming into a steel fence pillar surrounding the yard, but it was enough to kick the American's instincts into gear. He grabbed Arthur's arm before the Brit knew what was happening and pulled the shorter to him, then shoving him forward to the yard.
"Run!" He ordered as the gun in the darkness clicked again, and fired; the cowboy felt the heat and air rush past his face as the bullet barely missed.
The Brit obeyed, dashing into the yard with his fellow prey right on his heels. He had no idea just where he was to run, but so long as it separated them from their attacker, he didn't care.
He squeaked indignantly when Alfred grabbed his wrist and hauled him rather forcefully to the left, pressing them both to the far side of a tall cargo car. He winced, barely catching his hands on the car as he was pressed to it.
Alfred breathed hard beside him, eyes darting in the darkness with expert calculation.
Another shot fired and sent a shower of sparks as it struck the car's metal side just beside them.
The cowboy loosed a low growl and dismounted the gun from his shoulder.
"I wasn't playin' when I said I didn't like Kansas City, Arthur." He whispered low.
Arthur scoffed, but didn't respond afterwards and pressed closer to the car, and closer to Alfred.
"Stay here, Artie. If I ain't back soon, ya run and ya get Roderich, ya hear me?" He ordered low, leaving no room for any argument as his nerves twitched with old solider instincts scratching under the surface.
The Brit swallowed hard.
"As you wish, just come back alive, brute." He muttered in return and touched the American's shoulder gently.
Don't let him go!
Glancing back, Alfred's blues met Arthur's emerald orbs for a brief moment and nodded.
"Heroes don't get killed, Artie. Don't ya worry 'bout me."
Stop him!
With that, Alfred checked, and then ducked around the car, vanishing into the dark with his carbine to his torso and a pair of gunshots sang out into the night.
Arthur winced as the shots assaulted his ears and leaned heavily against the car.
Idiot! He's gone! My cowboy has gone to die and you didn't stop him!
The Brit bit his lip with enough pressure to be able to taste the irony sting of blood on his tongue. No, Alfred couldn't die, right? He certainly hoped so, as he pressed his forehead to the cool metal of the cargo train car and tried to force the bile rising in his throat down.
*~.:AT:.~*
Alfred ducked behind another train car, a long Pullman, and clasped the carbine to his chest with a steadying breath.
Craning his neck, the cowboy's blue gaze narrowed to peer into the darkness, only catching shadows and vague contours lined in moonlight silver. He cocked back the hammer on his rifle and waited.
A twitch in the dark caught his eye and he swung the rifle out, squeezing the trigger as the line-of-sight alighted on the little movement. The muzzle flash was accompanied by a shower of sparks across the yard where his bullet grazed the side of a car.
He growled and ducked back behind the car, cocking the lever forward to chamber another round and cocking the hammer back again.
The heavy padding of running, booted feet alerted him and he swung the rifle around again, ready to fire. The long barrel was forcibly pushed aside and a shot discharged into the dirt, sending up a column of debris.
The stunned cowboy was met with a crack to the cheek from a solid, heavy object. The American stumbled back, and in the moonlight, he saw his attacker.
The man's pale hair, imposing stature and burning violet eyes instantly revealed his identity as he charged forward again, grabbing the rifle's hot barrel and yanking it from Alfred's weakened grip. He sent the carbine flying into the darkness.
With a ferocious roar, Ivan continued his assault and aimed to pistol-whip the American again. This time however, Alfred ducked, balled his fist and slugged a strong uppercut into Ivan's stomach.
The Russian growled in pain, but didn't falter, and grabbed what he knew to be Alfred's wounded shoulder. Exploiting the weakness, he wrenched the cowboy to the ground with a wicked grin. The blue-eyed man hit the earth face first with a strained gasp of pain.
He didn't stay there long though, rolling as Ivan's booted foot slammed into the ground where his skull had been a moment ago.
The fiery American bounced to his feet and blocked a hammering fist from the Russian's arsenal. He had dropped the Percussion when Alfred had punched him.
They exchanged quite a few blows, neither gaining much on the other, but Ivan was steadily and subtly forcing the cowboy back.
When Alfred's back brushed the cold, unforgiving metal of a cargo car he felt a twinge of panic lace his nerves and barely dodged Ivan's punch.
The bounty hunter swore as he knuckles collided with the metal siding and he brought it back with a wince.
Alfred lunged off his bent leg and sprinted to where he'd seen the carbine fly. There was no way to out muscle the Russian, especially in the dark.
His azure eyes scanned the ground wildly, searching for his beloved rifle. He didn't have the chance to even find it before another shot rang out and pain blinded the cowboy's vision temporarily.
He slid to the ground, the pain stemming from his calf. He cringed as he listened to the Russian approach him from behind, chuckling darkly.
The wounded American pushed up on his elbows but was met with a boot to his back, forcing him back down to the ground.
"I gave you your chance, Alfred. This is what you deserve for choosing Arthur's side over mine."
Alfred hissed but didn't speak, or rather couldn't with his face pressed to the foul tasting, iron-laced dirt.
"Now then, just how to dispose of you? I could shoot you, but what kind of message would that send to Kirkland?"
"Ya crazy, Ivan." Alfred managed, turning his head as best he could to glare death sidelong at Ivan.
"No, American. I'm perfectly in the right of mind." He said dismissively and gave a vicious stomp to Alfred's shot calf, sending blinding tides of pain coursing through the cowboy's body. He choked on a scream of agony.
Ivan smirked dangerously, stepped back - quite sure that his pain-stunned prey wasn't going anywhere - and looked around. Just what could he do to Alfred to leave for Arthur to despair over? He'd ruled out shooting Alfred, as that was too simple and uninspiring, and pitched the gun away.
He could break his neck? Quite a clear message of his intent to see Arthur hanged. Maybe there was something else?
The Russian's violet eyes alighted upon an open cargo car just across from them. A number of crates were displayed and one had its siding smashed open, likely from another crate slamming into it on its journey.
Something stuck out from the crate though and caught the silver glitter of the full moon.
He stepped up into the car and wrapped his massive hand around the protruding object, then wrenched it free of its confines.
Ivan laughed ominously as he stepped back down from the car and approached the weakly writhing American on the ground, object in hand. Yes, this would do nicely.
Alfred felt his breath quicken as the Russian approached him, slowly, dangerously with an ominous little chant leaving his breath that chilled him to the core. His eyes however were stuck to the object in the hunter's hand.
The curve of the metal caught the moonlight strangely, and Alfred very much feared what Ivan planned to do to him with that heavy metal piece of pipe as he came within arms reach and smiled down at him.
*~.:AT:.~*
Arthur wrung his hands nervously, still fighting off the terrible sense of dread drowning him and the cruel voice violently and scathingly scolding him.
You let him go and now he's going to die. You killed him.
No, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. How long had it been since Alfred had run off. He'd heard more gunshots, but that had been a while ago.
He should go to Roderich, and get help, but that meant he'd have to leave the yard and that meant leaving Alfred. No, he refused.
Summoning up his courage, with quite a bit of angry determination he ducked around the car and sneaked along the line of various train attachments, with his brilliant emerald orbs searching for the cowboy's familiar shape.
As he peered around another car he caught sight of a dark silhouette, broad shouldered and tall.
"Alfred?" The Brit called, and immediately regretted it. That was stupid, he'd just given away his location.
The figure turned, and Arthur lost his breath in terrible anger and horror that all flooded together.
Ivan's violet eyes were narrowed wickedly with a childish smile painting his lips. The Englishman could plainly see a long curved pipe in his hand, and a dark liquid dripping fluidly from its bend.
"Hello again, Arthur." Ivan merely stated and stepped aside for Arthur to be able to see his handiwork. He was quite proud of the mess he'd made as he watched the Brit begin to tremble.
Arthur stared in horror at the broken, bloodied form of Alfred upon the ground. He was twisted and curled awkwardly, blood pooling around him and smearing his golden hair. His spectacles lay cracked and blood smeared beside his anguish-twisted face. The Brit noted in despair, that Alfred did not move and no life seemed to hold his body up; his form was completely limp.
With moistening eyes, Arthur tried to deny that his cowboy, his lovely, handsome, sweet, perfect cowboy was pinned between Death's cold set of teeth.
"No…" He whispered in horror. This wasn't a dream, this was absolutely real, and Arthur could claim that the smell of blood in the air made him sick to his stomach for the first time in his life.
Ivan approached him.
"You, Kirkland, won't suffer his fate. Oh no, I'm going to see you destroyed like a mad dog before an audience. I want to see you squirm with that rope around your throat and the people cheering your death."
The Brit stepped back, overcome. Alfred was dead, the blood, his form, Ivan's cruel smile, he was certainly gone.
Run, you fool!
Arthur obeyed, turned with tears rolling down his cheeks and started running, just running.
Ivan sprinted after him, like a wolf running down its prey. His long legs carried him faster than even Arthur's adrenaline induced limbs could and he gained ground steadily on the fleeing blond.
The Brit stumbled as he nearly tripped over something, but it was enough to give the Russian an edge and his heavy hand snatched the collar of the emerald-eyed man's suit jacket, yanking him back.
Arthur yelped, twisted and wildly bit down hard on Ivan's hand, drawing blood as his canines sunk in.
The hunter released him with a pained growl, and Arthur stumbled forward, landing on his knees.
Those intense green eyes widened as he came face to face with the shimmering metal and wood of Alfred's carbine. The same thing he'd stumbled over.
Instinctively, he grabbed it and twisted. Ivan was nearly on him, quickly recovering from the minor wound.
Arthur wasn't sure just what happened next. Some adrenaline induced nerve spike forced his hand on the lever, flipped it and his thumb dropped the hammer. He barely registered the surprised look on Ivan's face, as the muzzle flashed brilliant orange and the rifle's kick punched the Brit's shoulder with a stinging thump.
He watched in stunned silence as Ivan dropped to the ground, his chest blown open from point blank range of the shot. He landed with a solid thump and then only silence filled the night besides the whistling howl of the wind.
The Brit dropped the rifle to the dirt, confused, hurt and terribly destroyed inside.
That was it. It was over, and Arthur still hadn't figured out when it had actually started.
He sat in shock for a moment before swallowing hard and shakily rising to his feet.
He avoided looking into Ivan's still wide-open eyes, staring numbly up at the moon in death.
A noise startled Arthur from his stupor. It was a voice, no multiple voices and they were drawing closer, speaking some fast, foreign language.
Run! There's nothing left.
There was no denying it. Alfred was dead, Ivan was dead and Arthur was alive. Alive and alone. Fresh tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
Alfred…
He's dead. Leave.
No…
The voices were coming closer now; he could see movement in the dark.
You'll lose your own life if they find you.
Cowardice wormed into his nerves and Arthur turned; in too much emotional pain to really understand just what he was doing, Arthur fled the yard. He scrambled over the fence, and ran, not daring to look back to where he knew the American's body lay broken in the moonlight.
:(
See you all for the final installment. It's been a great 2 months writing this. You all are the best. Much love from the Hellie. ;)
PS: sorry if I sound so melancholy. I kind of am. I've read too much depressing fan fic today. :P