Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
This has been sitting in my files for over a year, thought I'd throw it here and give you something to let you know I'm not dead. This story won't be continued until after I finish at least two other stories, and will probably start updating around the same time as 'I'm Gonna Be'. Don't quote me on that, because clearly updates are only marginally within my control.
It was like a scene straight out of the pulps, he mused, waiting here in a dark alley down one of the back streets of the dirty city on this dark and stormy night. Like the dimes novels and penny dreadfuls Feliciano brought home, and read aloud to him and that asshole Beilschmidt, who always seemed to be over for dinner these days. Surprising that the uptight bastard would deign to grace the table of a 'dirty' cop —not that Lovino was dirty, but the only one who believed that was his brother, and that idiot hardly a stellar character witness— but apparently his bond with Lovino's brother, Feliciano, was strong enough to overcome his disdain for Lovino.
('Good friends' his ass, he knew what those two got up to behind closed doors. But he couldn't begrudge them that, not now, not... under the circumstances. Besides, even though he and Beilschmidt didn't see eye-to-eye, even Lovino had to admit the man was a fine officer. One of the best. And the bastard looked out for Feliciano, and the way things were these days Lovino had to be grateful for that. Feliciano was his only family, now, and it was a weight off his shoulders to know that if anything happened to him, Feliciano would be taken care of.)
He turned his collar up against the rain and hunched into his overcoat, pulling the brim of his hat down over his face. It did little to protect him from the torrential downpour turning the streets into rivers and the city into a collection of hulking, amorphous shadows behind the curtains of water. The streetlamp nearby was no help, the dim orange light it cast only made the shadows deeper and twisting them into unrecognisable shapes.
He huddled closer to the wall, cursing the weather, the night, his shitty luck, and everything in-between, thinking of all the reasons he should turn around and leave, pretend he didn't know what he knew, hadn't overheard this information. He should be home right now. His shift had ended hours ago. He was going to catch his death of pneumonia. This wasn't even his beat. He was missing dinner, and Feliciano was probably worrying, especially since Beilschmidt wasn't there tonight (although he wasn't supposed to know about that, either).
He was probably going to die, gunned down in this damned alley in the damned rain.
But he stayed, because he knew what he knew and he had to do something, because he wasn't a dirty cop, because he couldn't let them keep spreading fear and crime and killing good cops and innocent people, and most of all he stayed for Feliciano, who believed in him, and for...for... he stopped that train of thought in its tracks. He wasn't going to think about... him, not...
He pushed back the surge of pain and longing and hurt and confusion that thoughts of...him...always brought on, staring determinedly at the door across the street from him, a dark outline in the rain and darkness.
He was doing this because he couldn't let them win.
As if in response to his thoughts, he heard muted footsteps approaching, a sound he'd been listening for through the downpour. Heart racing, Lovino reached into his coat, shaking fingers curling around the handle of his gun. This was it. This was the moment that would change everything.
He waited until his prey had passed the alley he occupied, a shadowed figure in the dark and rain, and stepped out of the alley, raising his gun.
"Stop right there, asshole."
The figure froze, back to him.
"Don't. Move." He ordered, over the pounding rain. "Hands up. Where I can see them."
Slowly, the figure raised both hands.
"That's right. Nice and easy, bastard." He shifted, settling into a more stable stance, and adjusted his grip on the gun so it wouldn't slip in the rain. "Now, turn around. Slowly."
Moving slowly as ordered, the figure turned until it faced him, features obscured by shadows and rain. Lovino's eyes narrowed, his heart beating oddly. There was something about that silhouette... "Step forward. Into the light. Nice and easy, bastard." He repeated as the figure moved to comply. "No funny moves."
One step, two steps, steady and deliberate, into the circle of light under the lampost, which gleamed dimly off wet golden hair and glass lenses. "Hello, Lovi." The all-too-familiar figure greeted steadily, blue eyes watching him with an unreadable expression.
Lovino's eyes widened, and he lowered his gun, very nearly dropping it in his shock. "Alfred?" His jaw firmed, and he raised his gun, trembling with hot rage and hurt and confusion (and relief and longing). "Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."
That mouth he remembered so fucking well twitched up. "I really can't, Lovi."
"Don't you dare call me that. Don't you fucking dare. You have no right. You left. After we... That night..." Lovino's voice was rough, and he was thankful for the darkness and the rain and his hat which masked the tears which flowed freely down his face, because this bastard didn't deserve to see them. "I woke up and you were gone." His finger twitched on the trigger. "You left me, asshole. You never came back."
Alfred continued to watch him with that same unreadable expression. His voice was calm and steady when he spoke. "I had...obligations." His left hand flexed almost imperceptibly as he said it, and Lovino's eye was drawn to the glint of gold off the band on the third finger, which hadn't been there before.
Fresh waves of hurt and the sensation of betrayal, betrayal, betrayed washed over him, overwhelming him, nearly bringing him to his knees. His eyes locked with Alfred's, his thumb automatically drawing back the hammer of his gun.
Alfred noticed the action. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Yes." Lovino answered, almost steadily. They stared at each other for several long moments.
Alfred's eyes flickered to the weapon and back up to Lovino's. "What are you waiting for?"
Lovino didn't know. He wasn't sure why he hadn't pulled the trigger already. But at least he hadn't lowered his gun. "I'm not here for you, bastard. I'm looking for... someone else."
"Oh?" Alfred arched an eyebrow in mock-curiousity. "You got a tip-off?"
"Yes, I—" Lovino paused as it finally occurred to him to wonder what Alfred was doing here, in a back alley where he was supposed to find a ruthless mob hitman. "No..."
Alfred gazed steadily back at him.
"No," Lovino's voice shook, and he paled as the blood drained from his face. It couldn't be. He wouldn't. Not Alfred. His sweet, idealistic, idiotic, innocent Alfred. His Alfred wasn't a killer. "No. You wouldn't. Not you."
"You'd better kill me now," Alfred said conversationally, stepping towards him. "You might not get another chance."
"No." Lovino stepped backwards, away. "Not you." It wasn't true. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it.
"Yes." Each steady step Alfred took on the wet pavement matched the ones Lovino took backward as the blond advanced.
"No." Lovino was pleading, now. "No."
"Yes." Alfred's soft reply was almost lost in the rain, but there was no mistaking the conviction in his voice.
Lovino continued his retreat, and Alfred his advance, matching him step for step; the muted rhythm of their shoes in the water running over the ground as they moved in tandem, against the musical rush of rain falling thick around them reminded Lovino incongruously of a dance, as did the almost predatory way Alfred stalked him, gaze intent.
"Aren't you going to shoot?" Alfred said mildly. "You know who I am. You know what I've done. How many people I've killed. Well," he huffed a humorless laugh, "no, you don't know about all of them. Not nearly all. Just the ones we wanted you to hear about." A sardonic smirk played about the corners of his mouth and eyes. "To send a message in blood and death and fear, telling your kind that my kind can't be stopped."
"Shut up." Lovino ordered, firming his grip on his gun.
"Touched a nerve?" Alfred's smirk grew. "You know it's true. People like me are out here, on the streets and in your homes, doing as we please, and people like you are too fucking good to do what it takes to stop us." Lovino's back hit a wall, halting his progress backwards, and Alfred stopped too, the end of the barrel of Lovino's gun a scant few inches from his sternum.
"What are you waiting for?"
AN: Like everyone, I have my '20's story. Lovino's a cop, because that makes way more sense to me than the alternative. Alfred is...in trouble.
Hope this finds you well!
P.S. I feel I owe you guys a lot of information and explanations on a lot of things, but I must beg your forbearance a little longer.