Chapter 29: Deux: Two

"Damn it… I hate you."

A chuckle, "I don't think you're the only one."

Alec scowled, pushing away his plate of golden glazed chicken breast- it was a wonderful piece of culinary art. Grilled to perfection, tender enough to simply tear apart with your fork. The white meat seemed to melt in your mouth and the sauce drizzled over it complimented the taste very well.

He wasn't hungry though, and he settled for leaning his head on his hand, watching his employer across from him eat his own chicken with a dignified air around him.

Fork and knife worked together to cut away small pieces of meat, and with grace that came with practice, the morsel was lifted passed thin lips. Dmitri would chew, mouth closed, head held high; he would not speak or make any kind of noise until he rightfully swallowed, and a white napkin dabbed at his lips to catch any crumbs.

Then he would reach for the rich wine next to his plate, lifting the sparkling glass to take the smallest of sips, nodding afterwards as if approving its quality. Then the entire process was repeated.

Alec hated how nobles ate. Always so proper and graceful- the plate in front of him, as good as the food was, probably cost a small fortune, and wasn't exactly fulfilling. It was stupid, in his opinion, to spend so much on something like this, when you could get much more for half the price.

Nobles didn't care about that though; they threw around their money, wasting it on jewelry, fashion, hair-care-

They never knew about the other side of the world; the part that lacked such privileges. Alec remembered how it felt after three days of having nothing in his stomach; months of scrounging, taking what he could, barely getting by. Nowhere to go, no strength to fight those who shared the streets he lived on- a twig of a boy surrounded by despair.

He never knew the importance of table manners- for who was he going to impress? Back then, you shoved whatever you had in your mouth before someone took it, uncaring if it was dirty, rotten, infected. You only hoped to put an end to the twisting of your stomach, the fire of hunger- all you wished to do was survive.

Dmitri never knew that; consuming his food with such patience, looking for all the world like perfection, even while doing something mundane and human such as eating.

Nevermind the speckles of red covering his sleeves; he happily fed on the chicken in front of him, oblivious to the fresh blood staining his white shirt. "You seem distracted, Alec."

The Russian glanced up to meet golden eyes, grunting in a lazy fashion, "Just bored."

Dmitri tilted his head slightly. "Bored? How so-we have such a dangerous man after us, surely you are excited to see the outcome of this little plan of mine, yes?"

Alec sighed, "Yeah, but I was hoping to do this back in Moscow; there's people there, unlike out here, in the middle of nowhere."

Mihailov laughed again. "Is Alec lonely?" Said man just scoffed, not denying. "Perhaps you can find one of those prostitutes you love so much, pound into her like the dog you are. It'll get rid of that sour attitude you have."

Ignoring the insult, Alec closed his eyes, "Whatever. I doubt I'll find someone attractive in this barren wasteland. Not like the chick I met the other night- who called me earlier by the way- I could be on a date right now. You at least have your little boy-toy in the back."

"Perhaps, if I feel generous, you can have what's left of him when I am done."

"I don't want your scraps," Alec snapped.

Dmitri smirked, taking another drink of the red wine. "You do not know what I have just offered you, do you?"

Opening his eyes to send a small glare to the man across from him, Alec huffed, "As sexy as that kid is for a boy, he's too… virgin. I like them dirty, thank you. It means they know what the hell they're doing."

Setting the glass down, Mihailov stood from the table, brushing the front of his shirt down and frowning slightly at the red stains, as if just realizing they were there. Not that he particularly cared; he had more shirts he could change into. He hummed, "If you change your mind…"

"All I want is what you promised me," Alec growled. "You can keep whatever else."

"Of course, I would not dream of breaking my word. You have done so much for me; your reward is fully earned. Now, I fear I have made a mess of my… boy-toy, as you called him. Clean him up for me, will you?"

"Sure I will. Not much else to do here," The man replied dryly. He didn't look too excited about it, but he would not refuse a direct order.

Mihailov nodded, striding across the quant eating area connected to the kitchen and around the wall, out of sight. Probably went to his room, to clean up and change himself; it was getting dark outside and seeing as his boss left Moscow to go into hiding, there was no work to be done; it was likely the man would retire to bed soon.

Alec was getting tired himself; the flight was long, and after the small drama that happened with Matthew on the plane, it was difficult to get things under control. Then when they arrived, it was a rush to get everything unpacked and set up. The weather outside turned ferocious; in fact, Alec could barely see anything out the window next to the table. A terrible blizzard had begun, lasting throughout the day, and most likely throughout the night.

Sighing again, the Russian stood, leaving the dishes on the table for whoever else came by; they brought a maid, didn't they? Or was she left behind? He didn't remember-Dmitri's order to transport everything of value to a secret hideaway was sudden and many, seemingly random, people were excluded from the trip.

Even though Alec Zaytsev knew what was coming for those chosen few, he still wished to have been forgotten in Moscow. Caring for Dmitri was such a nuisance; he was like a stubborn, spoiled child- despite his cruel nature; Alec likened himself to a babysitter at times.

With heavy steps, he left the open dining room, passed the staircase, and into a hallway. Matthew was placed into a spare bedroom at the very end, the last door to the right. It was much better than the basement room he had been held in before, with a comfortable bed, complete with sheets and a padded comforter, although the boy was only placed on top of the bed, not within the covers.

At such temperatures, Alec could bet the blond was cold. The covers underneath could be put to use, but Dmitri liked to see the revealed skin. In any case, the comforter was most likely stained from the Canadian's blood anyway.

Shutting the door behind him, Alec's deep brown eyes connected with a strange violet. The Russian could agree with his boss; those eyes were a beautiful shade, and sure, the golden hair, the fair skin, lean body-Matthew was quite a catch. He simply wasn't a fan of Angels though; his life before this, the one that began on the streets, beat his belief in God or any of his descendants out of him. He lived in sin to survive- the dark deeds of 'evil' were the things that kept him breathing.

He learned to like the darkness- he found himself attracted to the lonely, the suffering, and the disturbed- the tainted. Matthew was too bright for him; not at all his type, and he didn't like going near something Mihailov had 'staked claim' to, much less fraternize with. He promised to keep far away from any of Dmitri's interests; for many reasons. To stay in the man's favor, for the sake of his job, for the mere fact of disliking his employer in the first place…

He met those eyes with a blank face, ignoring the glare sent his way; he marched past the tall dresser to the bedside, sweeping his eyes over the boy's form. Dmitri truly did make a mess; the lacerations upon pale skin seemed deep, the flesh split wide, blood still flowing sluggishly in some places.

There was something else catching his attention though; something white, like small drops of snow un-melting on the exposed skin. A hand came forward, fingertips touched a patch of unmarked flesh, and the small white speckles were hard and lukewarm, not cold or soft like he had expected.

Curious, he pulled his hand away to look at the substance, bringing it to his lips and flicking his tongue out to taste. "Salt?" he asked, surprised. He glanced back down to the marred chest of the Canadian, seeing rocky pieces of mineral covering the wounds. "Ouch, he really had some fun with you, didn't he? That must burn like hell."

The boy only glared, unflinching. Alec had to respect him for putting on such a front. Uncaringly, he turned to the door on the other side of the room, revealing a bathroom with a fairly big tub in the back. Sighing in annoyance, for he really didn't want to carry out such a task of bathing someone, he twisted the taps on the side, watching the flow of water rush to begin filling the ceramic basin.

Traveling back to the bedroom, he pulled open a drawer in the dresser, wondering if Dmitri wanted the boy to change into something else; that red robe was ruined by now. Surely there was something just as revealing in here…

"Damn it, they didn't put any clothes in here? I thought we packed those," he mumbled to himself, stumbling away from the dresser and leaving the room with a huff. It took him a few minutes to find something suitable in one of the unloaded suitcases they took with them; a simple button down shirt that would be a bit too big on the boy; perfect, for that would be the only thing he would wear.

He returned to the upset Canadian, throwing the shirt to the side and working instead on taking the IV out of his arm. There was nothing gentle about it, but the boy did not show any pain either, only continuing to watch Alec with displeased, cautious eyes, which further narrowed when the last thing covering him was pulled off.

Lifting the boy from the bed with ease, he carried him to the bathroom without trouble. "You're very light; you hadn't eaten since you got here, have you?" He didn't know if he actually pitied the boy or not; it was none of his business and he decided he didn't care. Setting the blond in the water, he tsked as the clearness of the liquid instantly turned a murky pink with the blood. He pulled the cork in the drain, letting the tap continue to flow, replenishing the tub with clean water as the dirty recycled down the pipes. "Maybe it would have been better to take a shower, but I'm not in the mood to get wet with you, kid," he said amusedly.

Rolling up his sleeves, he started with lathering up a washrag with soap, beginning with the kid's face, making a disgusted expression as he saw the burn mark on the cheek. "You think that's infected?" The burnt flesh looked dark in color, a dirty brown and red. The tissue was dead, and Alec was no doctor by any means, but he did know that such a serious injury usually meant immediate treatment.

He wondered if the dead tissue had to be cut away, or if the kid would need a skin graft transplant; a process that took healthy skin from some other place, to help the burn mark heal and reduce the scarring. It must be hurting, and it was a shame the kid's face had to be ruined like that…

Violet eyes only stared at the tiled wall across from him, as if unworried about that event happening. He twitched slightly as the wound was cleaned, but a few minutes later, even though the muscles of his body couldn't move enough to contract in the first place, he seemed to relax. Alec's intent to wash him seemed just that; no ulterior motive to violate him present, and perhaps Matthew could see how annoyed the man was with carrying out the task anyway.

Even if he could, he wouldn't complain- getting clean would be greatly appreciated.

Alec made sure to focus on the wounds, knowing Dmitri wouldn't like the boy to die of any kind of infection. They didn't need to be stitched and they seemed to already have scabbed over in some places. He washed the blond hair, laughing at the angry look Matthew gave him when he had to dunk the boy's head underwater to rinse the shampoo away. Whether the "Angel" was his type or not, it was amusing to see him look so defiant- like a weak little kitten promising revenge when he grew up.

When they were done, he turned off the running water and yanked the Canadian up, wrapping a fluffy white towel around him. Carrying him back to the bedroom, he dropped him on the covers, gathered the discarded shirt, and began dressing the boy like one would dress an inanimate doll.

Then the Russian grabbed the IV once more, huffing as another wave of exhaustion hit him; after this, he was definitely going to bed. Hopefully he'd be able to sleep in late tomorrow- things would go by much quicker if he could sleep the day away like that; nothing else to do anyway.

"Why?"

His entire body froze- his fingers in the process of tearing off a strip of tape, so that the IV wouldn't move once in the boy's arm. That voice, a quiet whisper, hoarse and weak, had most certainly come from the Canadian. Shocked brown eyes connected with violet, seeing the clarity within. "What?"

Matthew's lips opened slightly, the movement miniscule, but the mere feat was supposed to be impossible considering the drug that was supposed to be in his system. It was inconceivable that Matthew could have shaken the effects off in fifteen minutes! Usually it would take an hour to regain bodily function control.

Then again, they hadn't been on the plane for more than an hour before Matthew had the strength to rebel.

"Why?" the boy whispered.

Despite his surprise, Alec jumped into motion, gathering the IV and finding a vein to pierce in the boy's arm. He strapped it in place and made sure the drug was flowing once more, relaxing slightly as he observed it dripping into the Canadian's system.

He looked up to see the mauve eyes dull slightly, as if disappointed, or slipping into a depression. Alec suddenly felt remorseful. "I don't know, kid."

Matthew's eyes focused on his own. The Russian shrugged, sighing in helplessness. "I don't know why Dmitri is after you or Ivan. I've only known him for a few months. It's something to do with his inheritance… his father wanted this, you know?"

What a lame answer, Alec thought, but he really didn't know, and he didn't particularly care- Matthew was in the wrong place at the wrong time- bad luck… Call it whatever, but there was nothing to be done now. "Sorry, kid."

Another movement from those lips, a slight tilt in the corner; a dry smirk, a 'thank-you-but-you-really-didn't-help' kind of smile, and Alec returned it, truly apologetic. With another sigh, he turned from the bed, picking up the damp towel and dirty red robe, placing them in a hamper in the corner of the room. "Good-night," he murmured, striding out the bedroom door, shutting it behind him.

Even as he got ready for bed himself, his mind kept repeating his own words. He would shake his head, rub his eyes, and try to forget; he couldn't afford any attachments. He was Dmitri's 'right-hand' and if he was to fulfill his part of their deal, he needed to stay as far away from it as possible. He didn't need to know the why; Dmitri's business was his own and Alec did not need to know these things to do his job.

If he knew… he may not agree, and he couldn't do this if his conscious hounded at him.

…oOo…

"I was just coming home from school- I t-take college classes at night… Someone was in my apartment and they-" short, quick breaths, as Vera's voice on the receiver choked; her panic was causing her to hyperventilate.

Ivan tried to console her, speaking in low Russian even as he sped down the highway twenty miles over the speed limit, America asking about what was happening rather obnoxiously in the passenger seat. "Calm down. Tell me, whoever was there- is he still with you? Did you see his face?"

"No, he just… tied me to a chair and took my phone, s-said that Ivan Braginski can help me and dialed your number. He left, I think."

"Okay, did he say anything else?"

"N-no, that was it. What is this about, Ivan? I don't understand."

"Just a bad acquaintance. Don't worry, you're safe." Until Ivan was forced to 'kill' her- which he didn't think he could do at the moment. "He's just trying to scare you."

A soft sniffle, calming breaths, then… "Is Matvey okay?"

Ivan's hand clenched around the steering wheel, his foot pressing on the accelerator just a little more. He turned down another street, heedless of the red light above and causing another jeep to swerve out of his way, a horn blaring in outrage. "He's fine," he growled.

"T-that's not very comforting; the way you said it."

Ivan cursed, switching lanes and passing a car going way too slow, jumping narrowly in between a small Lincoln and an eighteen-wheel storage truck. America, (who had been talking in the background this entire time, though Ivan ignored him very well) yelled particularly loud, "What are we doing? I'd like to know before you send us tumbling in a burning ball of twisted metal!"

Lips thinning, Ivan gritted his teeth, turning down one more street with the sound of screeching tires, zooming down the paved passage in record time, even if it was narrower than the others. "I'm almost there, Vera."

He hung up the phone, pocketing it, and snapping out a "Shut the fuck up, Alfred!" for the sake of answering the American just so he'd stop yelling in his ear.

A second later and he hit the brake, maneuvering the vehicle into a graceful glide across the cemented path, stopping right outside a townhouse kind of building. Jumping out of the car, his rifle in hand, Ivan ran up to the navy painted door with gold numbering 765 on the front. The door had been locked, but one shove with his good shoulder and it burst open easily.

"Vera!" he called, and a muffled cry was heard in reply. The apartment was easily navigated through and may have been considered fairly large and open had it not been for the four men; their large bodies taking up all the space.

Continuing on through the living room and into the bedroom, he paused, looking around cautiously. Vera was in the middle of the room, sitting in a straight-backed dining chair, hands tied behind her with rope as well as her feet. She looked at him with running mascara staining her face, light brown hair, straight and as long as her chin looked mussed.

Her clothes were rumpled, the dark denim skirt and white sleeveless tank top slightly out of place. She looked frightened, and yet she smiled through her tears when she saw Ivan. "Y-you hung up on me…"

Despite the anger coursing through his veins, he apologized, knowing how terrified she was. He stepped forward, intent on setting her free, when something else caught his eye. Directly in front of the bound teenager was a camera, standing on its tripod as if it belonged there, waiting to be used – or already in use.

Was Dmitri watching? To make sure he killed the girl…

Why did he want Vera dead? She was just a teenager; a bit of a partier, outspoken and brave, but Ivan did not have any attachment to her- they'd only met once. She dragged Ivan and Matthew to a club; they had fun, and that was it…

"Do you know a man named Dmitri Mihailov?" Ivan asked; his voice harsh.

"No."

Was this a test? Simply to see how well Ivan would carry out his given orders? She was too young, too innocent to have anything to do with the government or the underground. Perhaps she was targeted for lack of any other civilian Ivan associated with- start small; a teenage girl. Then move on to the important; the Council members, his Prime Minister, the President.

He couldn't do that- he wasn't sure he could do this. He may have recklessly killed his own people before, but back then… at least he had a reason, no matter how twisted it may have been- it had been right. He couldn't pretend this was right; his orders weren't coming directly from his boss (Medvedev wouldn't have called upon him to take out a girl like this; if it had needed to be done, surely the man could use others under his command).

She was his child… frightened- counting on him to help her; could he kill her?

With a heavy heart, Ivan stepped forward once more, most likely coming into view on the camera. His dull violet eyes connected to Vera's bright brown, and he frowned. His grip on his rifle tightened; he couldn't bring it up, couldn't take aim or pull the trigger, not while staring directly in the woman's trusting gaze.

"Ivan," Gilbert began, the only one who had read the letter and knew exactly what he was supposed to do. "… Don't."

"I have to…"

"Matthew wouldn't want you to."

"You'd rather him get hurt for this?"

Prussia swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath. "As much as it hurts to say… Matthew will survive. She wouldn't…"

Ivan's chest ached, like it had so many times before, his mind conjuring up that image of Canada, knowing that, even if Matthew survived, he would suffer every second of it.

Perhaps Ivan was underestimating Matthew's strength- Canada had been involved in a war, the boy understood the risks of getting captured and tortured. He had the will to get through whatever the enemy gave him.

It made no difference really; they all were trained for the exact same thing, and it didn't mean they suffered any less. If anything, their will to live and remain loyal encouraged their captors to make it even harder to do so.

The fact that it was Matthew- the boy Ivan had come to care for more than anyone else- certainly made that point irrelevant as well. Russia didn't care if Matthew could handle it- he didn't want the Canadian to get hurt any more than he already had.

He agreed with Gilbert however, and he knew Matthew would only come to hate his methods of 'saving' him. Canada already made it clear in his call- he didn't want anyone getting hurt for him (Ivan swore to continue this rescue anyway, but… Canada would not appreciate this, and it would certainly hurt Ivan so do such a thing).

He kneeled before the girl, shouldering his rifle, ignoring her shocked question of just why he held a weapon like that in the first place. Retrieving a six-inch long knife from his boot, the sharpened edge cut through the thick rope holding her feet to the chair legs easily, like slicing through butter. He did the same to the restraints binding her wrists tightly. "I'm sorry this happened, Vera."

Prussia shrugged passed the others still crowded in the doorway, stepping behind the camera and following the long cord connected to the device. "It's live," he said, seeing the cord ending in a typical phone jack, plugged into the outlet.

Ivan turned to look directly in the camera's lens. "Turn it off."

Gilbert took hold of the black wire, jerking it from the wall roughly, "Get ready for another picture…"

Russia didn't think he could take another one of those, but he kept that comment to himself, standing with a blank face; his emotions well hidden.

America growled. "Can you tell us what's going on now? Why is Matthew going to be hurt this time?"

"I was ordered to kill her," Ivan replied. "Seeing as I didn't, Matthew will suffer the repercussions."

"Why couldn't you just do it? Who the hell is she- no one of importance, right?"

Russia glared. "Let's see you kill an innocent daughter for nothing," he snapped.

Alfred huffed, realizing it was slightly cruel of him to suggest Russia was weak for this- especially because he knew had he been in Ivan's place, he'd disobey that order as well.

But damn it, his brother was going to be harmed for this!

"What now?"

The four nations remained silent, and Vera, watching the proceedings even if she didn't understand the words, didn't interrupt, sensing the distress between them. She fixed her clothing, trying to look presentable and less like a wreck of a girl who had a near death experience (she didn't know the half of it).

Gilbert detached the camera from its tripod. "We have no more leads," he murmured, voice holding a frustrated edge to it. "All we can do is research. Delve deeper into Dmitri's files; find some kind of reasoning for his hatred of Russia."

America cursed, backing out of the room and stomping across the living room out of sight.

Germany frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "Let's just get back…" He turned as well, though with much less anger than the American before him, and out of the room.

Gilbert held the camera out, making a gesture between Vera and the device. "Is this yours?" She shook her head in the negative and the albino scowled, pushing buttons and watching everything that had been recorded from the beginning. There had only been fifteen minutes of video, the camera had been turned on by nothing but a black coated figure, the face unseen. Probably a simple lackey Dmitri had ordered around, but definitely someone who could potentially know where Mihailov had gone.

"Fuckin' Russians; I'm tired of this shit- absolutely nothing," the Prussian muttered darkly, glaring at the camera as he stomped out of the room to find his brother.

Ivan broke his blank expression to send an annoyed look the man's way, the insult was very broad, but he wouldn't bite back. Instead, he looked back to Vera, who stepped forward, a hand taking hold of Ivan's black coat at the elbow, looking up at him with worry. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for… this, whatever it is."

"You did nothing wrong, but if you don't mind, you should come back to my house for a day or two, until this is all done with. I don't know if you'll be safe here."

She nodded, sniffling and wiping away the tear tracks and smudged make-up with a pitiful tsk.

…oOo…

Viktor Kozlov laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've frozen every single bank account, tarnished his company with the rumor of bankruptcy (which is certainly now true), the media will be all over that. You somehow got a repossession company to schedule an immediate take-all…"

Arthur smirked, leaning back in the plush armchair, crossing his legs and taking a sip of the bourbon he had found in the kitchen. "We definitely have the influence, don't we? There are things we can't touch- Russia would have to deal with the police in order to get out an arrest warrant, but everything else was quite elementary."

France smiled from the loveseat beside the Englishman, happy to at least have some kind of advantage; the knowledge that he'd done something for Matthew soothed him somewhat. A shuffling from beside Francis caught his attention and he looked to Italy, who had taken to wringing his bright blue shirt worriedly. "What is wrong, Feli?"

"Doitsu should be back by now, shouldn't he?"

England waved in dismissal, "They're fine, Italy. In any case, there was no time limit for them to return, perhaps they found something. I imagine they have rescued the lad by now, at the least."

Ukraine came around the sofa, a glass of iced lemonade in her hands which she handed to the retired KGB agent with a small smile. He thanked her. "I just hate waiting…" her words were whispered forlornly, and everyone's solemn expressions told that they agreed.

"S-should I… put up the food? It's cold by now," Feliciano murmured, light brown eyes glassing over in tears that didn't fall. He had made such a big diner for everyone, with the help of Katyusha they had set up the table, and placed the perfectly baked ham in the middle, hoping to clear up the tension and stress with the slight happiness of good quality food. It was the only thing they could do and the two needed something to keep them busy.

"Yes, please," Arthur said, sighing. "I suppose it is time to get ready for bed."

Feliciano stood and Katyusha followed him to the kitchen to clean the dishes and put away the leftover food for when the others returned. Their moves were mechanical, their voices subdued, and their once talkative personalities seemed dull and oppressed. Ukraine was depressed and scared for Matthew, and Italy couldn't help but worry too, even if he didn't know Canada very well.

Italy and Ukraine both knew there wasn't much for them to contribute; there were enough Nations involved in the first place, and it wasn't like they had as much influence or power as the superpowers currently working to resolve this. So, with heavy hearts lifted only with hope, they tried to do the best they could to alleviate everyone's stress. However, it just seemed to grow more unbearable with every hour that passed; the wait was agonizing.

An hour later, fifteen minutes passed eleven, and the muffled sound of vehicle doors were heard through the thick walls. Italy jumped with the sound, spinning on his heel, leaving the sparkling kitchen in a sprint, sliding on the wooden floors into the foyer just as the front door swung open, revealing an exhausted looking Germany.

Feliciano leaped, arms wrapping over the broad shoulders, head burying itself into the German's neck, a long incomprehensive slur of words from the Italian, the meaning lost, but the emotion present. Ludwig sighed, though it was unclear if it was from exasperation or relief- and after steadying himself, gave the boy a firm hug, keeping him close even as he stepped forward, allowing the others passage into the house.

"Did you get him?" England asked, sliding into the foyer as if he had run to greet them as well, France not a second behind him. "Where is he?"

America growled, dropping the black duffle bag of AK47s they had gathered together, bending down to unlace his boots. "No, we didn't get him. We're no closer to finding him either."

France squeaked, "B-but you said-"

"Obviously, we were wrong," the blond snapped; his sour mood was clear for all to see. Alfred threw his wet footwear beside the discarded bag, stomping through the foyer and past England and France, running up the stairs two at a time. A few moments later, and the loud slamming of a door was heard.

Awkward silence befell the rest of the group as everyone processed the failure. Italy had calmed down from his whined "thank God you're okay" and "I was worried, Doitsu." Now, he seemed just as confused and lost as all the others, looking between everyone's distraught faces and feeling their sorrow. One person was new though, and he asked, with a meek tenderness, who the young woman by the door was.

"Her name is Vera. She doesn't speak English, but she's kind enough," Ivan stated, his voice blank and without emotion. "She's been through quite a lot tonight… she should rest. Kozlov," the cop hanging at the edge of the living room startled. "Take care of her, please. She may be in danger, it's why I brought her here, understand?"

"Da…" Vera was gestured to follow him, and she stepped forward nervously, looking weak and tired, despite the smile she gave to her new 'care-taker.'

Italy withdrew from Ludwig's grip. "Ve, I'll go get her something to drink. She looks a mess."

Germany let him go, glad to see the boy was safe, and still with such a generous heart.

"There really was nothing?" Arthur asked, his voice nothing but a whisper, hoping they'd correct their earlier statement.

The three men- Ivan, Ludwig, and Gilbert, shook their heads, and it seemed as if the two father figures across from them began to deflate; their shoulders sagging and eyes darkening. France began to mutter in French once more, and England closed his eyes, turning away and pushing the Frenchman back into the study. A room where France could cry freely and England could let out his anger.

Ivan didn't care, the room was already a mess, and he doubted there was much else to break. With shaking limbs, he started his way to his own room, noticing Ukraine following him, her strong hands wrapped around his bicep, keeping his balance steady as he walked. They made it into the darkened room and the Russian fell onto his freshly made bed, clean of the dirt and blood that had covered it that morning.

From his laid back position he pulled off the replacement scarf, throwing it unceremoniously across the room; he would never disrespect the original in such a way. He felt his sister's hands on his boots, unlacing the strings with sureness. He was surprised at the action, but didn't show it, continuing to stare up at his off-white ceiling, the little cracked designs in the paint he had spent many nights studying.

"Katyusha…" he whispered, for once, not worried about showing just how much this was hurting him. "I can't get to him. I don't know what to do. He's hurt and I… I'm the reason. Why does everything good always break around me? Even when I try…"

His elder sister shushed him gently, pulling the heavy boots off and continuing to undress him for bed- everything but the white shirt and gray boxers, and covering his shaking form with the bed sheets. Like a doting mother she smoothed the hair from his forehead- she hadn't tucked him in like this since before the Soviet Union. "It's not your fault, Vanya. You'll find Matvey, I know you will. Everything will be fine, brother, you'll see."

Violet eyes connected with deep blue and Russia was calmed slightly, "Do you think he'll hate me?"

"No," she replied. "Matthew would never hate you for this, Vanya."

"… Thank you Katyusha, I am glad you no longer hate me. If you can forgive me… maybe he can too, da?"

Katyusha paused, watching Ivan's blank face. "Hate, hate, hate," she murmured. "Don't talk like that, Ivan. I never hated you… I was afraid, yes, and I'm sorry for that. You were always my little brother though, and I love you; that will never change."

Ivan's lips pulled in a frown. "I'm sorry I scared you, sister," he said slowly. Katyusha smiled warmly, and with a surprising swoop, she landed a kiss on his forehead.

"Sleep now. You need to rest."

She pulled back, turning to the door and giving her little brother one more smile before shutting it behind her, leaving a somewhat dazed Russian in the room. Ivan sighed, glancing back up at the ceiling, the warmth of happiness at this reconnection with his sister fleeting. For a moment, it almost felt like the past; Ukraine would tuck him in, kiss him goodnight, even when he claimed to hate that ("it's weak!").

Belarus would crawl into his bed after nightmares and he'd begrudgingly let her stay, because he liked the thought of him protecting her (this was before she thought of him as anything more than an older brother to be admired).

That warmth faded though as his mind continued to run, and he felt his body sag into the mattress, his eyes closing. "I was afraid…"

He was such a monster. All he knew how to do was fight, intimidate, bully- he knew no compassion. Until this month, he didn't know that he needed to say he cared for his sisters; he thought they knew- but how could they when he acted so angry all the time, even when he put on a fake smile.

He was starting to realize how he had acted over the decades, and his form quivered in disgust- he thought he had changed. He hadn't.

He was deluding himself.

It is not good to grieve the passing of a monster.

Especially a monster without his master, no one knows this better than you, yes?

But he had done some things right, hadn't he? Matthew… the boy had said so himself.

"You're better than you think."

"You're very strong, both in body and mind."

Canada… Maybe Ivan could just ask him. If the boy thought he was a monster- if he told the blond why he was so… fucked up.

If he just told him…

…oOo…

The morning was blinding, the sun's glare off the pristine white snow absolute. It covered everything; the dense forests of tall pine and fir trees, from the tips (more than twenty feet high) to the very ends, and continued its cover across the ground. The blizzard had ran throughout the night, and for the most part of the morning, in fact, whipping winds still threw around wisps of snow, like a sandstorm. Certainly, it was more tranquil than an actual blizzard, and beautiful to watch- though from the safe warmth of the cabin, of course.

Dmitri Mihailov sighed, seemingly in disappointment, as he took a sip of the black tea in the stark white ceramic mug. As beautiful and calming as the weather was to observe, be couldn't help but think of the current situation; more specifically, the Russian back in Moscow and his poor choices as of late.

He was hoping things would go much more smoothly than they had been. Of course, he was aware of some slips through his plans. He didn't expect Ivan to have help- two Germans of some descent and a blond American obviously were not accounted for in Dmitri's scheme of things. He wondered why they were there; it couldn't be for Ivan's sake, so it must have been for Matthew- the boy currently in a restless sleep behind him.

Mihailov didn't want to wake him just yet, he looked too peaceful, like the actual angel he related the boy to- there was no anger present in the features. He wished to see those beautiful eyes, but here lately… they only served to anger him with their hatred towards him.

It wasn't worth him looking into those violet irises when they glared so coldly back at him.

Such expressions didn't suit the angelic Canadian.

"Pity," he murmured, sipping his tea. Indeed, it was a pity that nothing seemed to go as planned- Matthew's capture surely broke a part of Ivan's resolve, but the Russian still refused to obey him; such disorderly conduct- breaking into his home, probably killing any servants he found there- and not killing the girl he had specifically targeted.

Where was all the leverage? Perhaps Matthew didn't mean enough to the Russian?

Or did Russia simply fall lower than he expected? Maybe another push was necessary- something closer to the cold heart of the monster he pretended not to be. He had another card to play after all.

Retrieving his phone, he sent out a text message, marveling at the quick signal even if he was in the 'middle of nowhere,' and more than three thousand miles away from its destination. He was quite surprised he even had service out here, though it was weak.

He finished his tea, setting it on the windowsill next to a thick leather book, withered with age, yellowed and cracked. Dmitri glanced at it, bringing his hand up to lay upon it with gentleness unbecoming of him, as one would do to a bible; Mihailov closed his eyes, as if in prayer. "He won't be able to stop this," he whispered, "Even if he stops me."

A smirk crossed his lips, and he reopened those golden eyes, brighter than usual. He turned his head slightly, glancing to the bed and the figure lying on top. Violet eyes locked with his own, narrowed and wary- suspicious and fearful.

"I'm afraid you will not be able to escape either. After all, those wounds I gave you may disappear one day, but the memory of what I have and will do will stay with you forever." Those beautiful eyes shone, and Dmitri was once again captivated. He pulled away from the window, taking the bound book with him, holding it carefully in his hand as he settled, perched on the edge of the bed, watching the Canadian with a strange softness.

"You have no idea, do you? I read a bit about Canada's history," Matthew's eyes widened. "You have nothing resembling Ivan's past. In fact, the only ones who could relate to Russia would be the Middle East- Saudi Arabia, parts of Africa, North Korea, and Germany."

A hand came up to caress Matthew's cheek. "I wish I could give you a taste of what it's like- you could understand Ivan better, and me. Unfortunately, only your boss could do such a thing." Another smirk and Matthew's face turned ashen. "I wonder what your boss would say if he knew his Nation was in such a compromising position…"

The hand began to lower, sliding down a cheek to the neck, wrapping around it with a lax but threatening grip. "I could kill you. Then again- you wouldn't stay dead for long would you? What if your body was completely destroyed? Burnt to ashes…" He let out an amused laugh. "Would your body reform? Would you regenerate or just appear, I wonder. I'd love to find out if we have the time- so many questions."

The hand relaxed against the narrow throat, and continued to run down the length of the blonde's body. The shirt separated their skin from directly touching, but as thin as it was, Mihailov would still feel the rough lines across the boy's chest. Rises and falls, dips and plains- the design he had carved into the flesh redrawn with his finger tips. "I could… do other things as well," He whispered, the violating hand paused on the abdomen before dipping lower, fingers spreading across the milky thigh, dragging the hem of the shirt up slowly. "Would it mean something? Having sex with a Nation?"

Oh, those eyes, how they shone with such a great deal of fear at those words; for once, holding an actual plea- not a hatred or a pitying emotion. It was the first breakthrough he'd had with the Canadian- no amount of torture had resulted in that look.

With a hungry look, Dmitri leaned over, crashing his lips against the blond. The book in his hand was released, and he brought his free hand up, taking hold of the Canadian's chin, forcibly unhinging the jaw and slipping his tongue inside. The boy tasted sweet- like heaven, and Mihailov moaned at the flavor; the moist heat, the soft skin of the thigh he caressed.

His grip turned harsh, his fingers digging in with bruising force, his body towering over the blond. He broke the kiss, nipping at those sweet lips, so soft and luscious. He caught sight of violet; wet tears gathered in the corners, that pleading emotion still present, begging him to stop- Mihailov ducked down to latch onto that supple neck.

It made him so hot; the heat from the boy underneath him- the knowledge of breaking something and getting such a great reward while doing so. Taking something from Ivan…

How he'd love to take this pretty thing; feel it, break it- and see Ivan's face when he realizes.

With a shuddering, excited breath, Dmitri shifted, pulling himself up, letting his knee slip between the boy's slender legs, up to the juncture of his thighs. His hand pulled the leg up, the limp limb settling on the Russian's hip. He molded against the Canadian, feeling the thin form against his and loving the thrill, the heat.

"Hey Dmitri, you got a… call." Alec's thick voice (from both sleep and boredom) trailed off. "Um… Want me to come back later?"

Mihailov growled against the neck he had been marking, leaving the smooth throat and glaring at the man standing in the doorway. "My cell phone didn't ring."

The Russian held up his own cell. "You gave everyone this number, remember? Anyway, it's a customer- something about canceling his request in –"

"Work matters can wait, Alec," Dmitri snapped, his normally polite attitude, even while annoyed, forgotten for the moment. "If you can't see, you incompetent idiot, I'm dealing with something more personal."

Alec rolled his eyes, "This is personal. Your company is going to shit, this isn't the first call I've gotten, and I've been handling this since five o'clock."

Cursing under his breath, Dmitri slid off the bed, gathering his leather bound book and phone, not bothering to hide the slight bulge in his black slacks as he pushed his way past Alec, snatching the phone along the way.

"Dick," Alec whispered once he left. He looked about to leave, even after sending a blank look to the boy on the bed. Canada's eyes were still wide and wet, but the look given to Alec – one of gratitude, made him pause.

The Russian frowned slightly, stepping into the room and reaching over the bed. With one tug, the white shirt covering Matthew was pulled down, once again covering the boy for decency. Then he spun on his heel, leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

…oOo…

Ivan awoke with a headache that was more annoying than painful, sitting up with a numb kind of feeling. He got out of bed, picked his clothing out for the day, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair- all with a mechanical feeling to it. He didn't want to walk out of the bedroom- he didn't want to face the world yet.

Still, he needed to get going- there were things he had to do. The first among them: call his boss.

America had one thing right: this wasn't personal anymore. Dmitri knew they were Nations, which meant the man shouldn't be surprised if the military were involved...

His thought process stalled and he suddenly looked about him as if he had lost something. Perhaps he had- where was Kumajirou? The bear was in pain the last time he'd seen him; the phantom aches in the chest now clear after the new picture he received yesterday.

He could get an understanding of Matthew's situation had Kumajirou been around. Was Matthew being punished for his disobedience?

With quick steps, much more stable and balanced than yesterday's, he stepped out of his room, striding down the hall. He peeked into the living room, catching sight of Alfred on the loveseat, indentified by the brown bomber jacket over his hunched form. Viktor Kozlov lay on the couch, arm dangling limply off the end. The coffee table between them had been moved, allowing space for two padded pallets upon which the forms of both France and England rested.

Ivan supposed he should have been a gracious host and helped decide the sleeping arrangements, however, it seemed that his 'guests' were capable of settling it themselves.

Moving past the sleeping figures, Ivan began his way upstairs, stepping lightly so as to make no noise. The first bedroom- the one Matthew had used- was occupied by Germany and Italy, and the last one at the end of the hall, belonged to Ukraine. In the middle was a regular wooden door leading to Belarus's bedroom…

He pushed it open; peeking inside with hesitance- the last time he'd been inside was when Natalia had threatened Kumajirou. The drama of that night seemed so clear, from the look on Canada's face, to the accusations from Natalia afterwards. Her words, thinking back on them, could have been a foreshadowed warning.

"They made you into a monster, and anyone who thinks you can change is delusional," She whispered.

Blinking away the memories, Ivan stepped into the room, pausing at the shattered glass on the carpeted floor. It was still there? Nobody picked it up?

His eyes flickered to the bed, covered in a forest green quilt to ward off the cold. It was empty…

What?

Her suitcase was gone- she left, obviously but… she was supposed to watch Kumajirou!

A flash of anger coursed through him- he trusted her with this! –and then worry, because she promised, and no matter how angry she was at him, she'd never do something wrongful to him. At least not at such a dire time.

Surely, in history she had snapped back at him, she'd never been anything but a stubborn Nation, even while under his rule- but for something so petty…

He glared at the empty room, taking out his phone, (fully charged, Katyusha must have set it up after helping him to bed) and dialing a number he hadn't willingly called in over a decade.

It seemed to take forever for Natalia to pick up, and when she did, her voice had a strange static sound to it. "Brother?"

"Where the hell are you?" he asked harshly. "Do you have Kumajirou?"

"Yes… He's here."

Ivan waited, expecting more. When it seemed she wasn't going to continue, he impatiently asked his first question once again.

"I… just landed in Magadan."

Violet eyes narrowed. "Why are you there?"

"It is where Canada is being held, Vanya."

…Thank You…

Yeah, this came out better than the last! :)

Thank you everyone for reading! I hope you enjoy it, and the next chapter will begin the wrap up. Time to save Mattie! Or at least try! Ha ha, don't kill me…

I had many people ask who Vera was…. She's the civilian girl who helped Matthew find Ivan in his fight, and then took them clubbing with her friend (who is fine and untouched, for those of you who asked about that. It was just Vera being targeted). She's not connected to Dmitri; it was just Mihailov trying to get Ivan to kill someone he knew without that person being too important. Baby steps first, eh?

This semester is over, until summer classes start I will have time in the mornings to write, which is my favorite time to do so. Hopefully that means I can write more! Yay!

Happy (belated) Cinco De Mayo!

Cinco De Mayo:

Back in the 1800s, Texas (Yay! Texas!) was part of Mexico. Texans wanted to be part of America! And Alfred was like, "Hell Yes! Texas is now mine!"

Mexico didn't like this very much, and so, this started the Mexican-American War of 1846. This war was very taxing on Mexico, who is already quite poor (the distribution of Wealth is horrible, if they got their act together, they could be quite good economic-wise). So, Mexico stopped paying their debts to Foreign Nations (France, England, and Spain). These three Europeans were like "Where is our money?" and Mexico tried to explain.

Arthur and Antonio understood and allowed Mexico leniency. Francis, however, wanted his money now (greedy Frenchman, Napoleon was kind of a cruel boss, eh?). France invaded. 8,000 French Soldiers attacked the small city of Puebla, where only 4,000 poorly equipped Mexican soldiers defended.

On May 5th, against all odds, the Mexican army won. Yay!

… A year later, France came back and successfully took over Mexico City, but by that time, Alfred's Civil War was over, and the US kind of came to the rescue. Which is weird right? Seeing as America and Mexico were still angry at each other- but this happens often between us- we fight, but only we can pick on each other, nobody else. :P

Translations:

None…

Disclaimer: I do not own it (sniff), and Gilbert called me a sadistic whore.

Gilbert: You punched me!