Just one left, guys!

Title: No Free Lunch

Prompt: Quarantine

Rating: PG

Summary: Russia is sick. With the red disease.

Warnings: BAD ECONOMICS JOKES

All Russia wanted was to eat breakfast in peace. But it seemed like ever since Poland had started living with him, inevitably every meal would be interrupted in some way.

"Something big's on the doorstep," Poland was telling him now, sitting backwards on a chair.

Russia ignored him.

"It could be a bomb," Poland snapped his gum loudly. Where he had gotten gum from, Russia had no idea, but it was there nonetheless, and it was a gaudy pink. "Or, like, a present. Do you think there's anyone who would send you a present?"

The newspaper headlines today were dull, unfortunately. Russia flipped listlessly to the second page.

"Hey, maybe it's for me. Like the mail!"

Wait, what? "Who did you get mail from?" And why didn't I see it first?

Poland drummed a tune on the back of the chair. "Wish I could tell you."

There was a long pause where Russia stared at him threateningly and Poland ignored him for perhaps just longer than was really safe.

"Liet took all of them," he said, shrugging, "Can't help you."

"All of them?"

"Yup. All of them." Poland was examining his nails now. Clearly, he wasn't going to volunteer anything else. Russia stood and swept out of the room, intent on finding the Baltic nation. He didn't have to go far. In the hallway, Prussia had Lithuania pinned against the wall. One hand was planted firmly on the wall next to Lithuania's head, trapping him, and the other was ripping open an envelope.

Russia cleared his throat, and instantly Prussia froze. Lithuania snatched the envelope out of his hand and slipped away from him. He handed over the stack of mail to Russia silently, looking guiltily at his feet. Russia flipped through the stack briefly. There was one for every member of his household, all addressed in the same illegible scrawl. Immediately he could see why Prussia had been interested in the envelopes, they were marked with postage from Bonn. Well. America could at least have been more subtle about it.

His name had been written in red ink. How clever. Inside was a brightly colored card. 'Turn that frown upside down!' said the cartoon puppy on the front. Russia flipped it open, and was greeted by more of the bright block lettering. 'Feel better soon!' the card read, and at the bottom America had signed it.

Russia closed the card and looked up. Prussia looked just as bewildered as he felt. A quick check revealed that the other envelopes all held similar cards. Russia handed them back to Lithuania absently as he headed out to the front door. Just as Poland had said, there was something big sitting there; a box, also postmarked from Bonn. The stamp on the top told Russia that it had shipped only yesterday.

He carried it inside to the kitchen. Poland seemed to have gotten the idea that perhaps he should make himself scarce, because he was gone when Russia went in. He cut off the tape and cautiously folded open the flaps of the box, peering in at what looked like...a container of something liquid.

"What did he send me?" Russia wondered out loud to himself as he lifted the bowl out of the package. Well, there was one way to find out. Russia lifted the bowl and headed up to his study, nudging the door shut behind him. Once he'd deposited it safely on his desk, he picked up the red phone and waited. America was a little slow answering.

"What is it?"

"What? Look, are you about to launch something at me?"

Russia pulled back to look incredulously at the receiver.

"No, of course not. Why—"

"Then I can't talk to you."

There was a click as America hung up. Russia shrugged and set the phone down. Oh well, it probably wouldn't kill him to open the lid. He pulled it off cautiously, only to catch the distinctive smell of chicken soup wafting off the mixture.

Well, it was a wrong to waste food. Twenty minutes and a warm stovetop later, Russia had settled himself back in his office, soup in hand.

He picked up the phone again. America answered quickly this time.

"I told you I can't talk to you."

"Is it poisoned?"

"No." America hung up.

Russia tried a little, bracing himself, but it appeared that either America had inherited France's cooking skills or it was store-bought. He sniffed at the soup again. No, definitely store-bought.

America picked up right away.

"Why did you send me get well cards, chicken soup, and," Russia peered into the box, "orange juice?"

"It's to cure you."

"Oh. Am I sick?"

"Yes," America told him solemnly, "You're infected with communism, and I have to cure you and all your buddies."

"That's nice of you," Russia told him. "The soup is good."

"It tastes like freedom," America informed him.

"I always wondered what freedom tasted like."

"Well, now you know!" There was a pause. "So are you ready for economic change now?"

"No." Russia fished through the rest of the box. Ooh, crackers.

"What? But-but the taste of freedom!" It was almost like the time Russia had told America he didn't care much for hamburgers – but not quite as bad.

"America, you are the land of the free, aren't you?" Yes, it was definitely better with the crackers.

"And the home of the brave, and other non-red things, yeah."

Russia popped a Saltine into his mouth, thinking for a moment. "So do you also taste like freedom?"

"I—what?"

"Because that would mean you would taste like this soup, right? That would be a little strange."

Another pause, and then America hung up on him again. Too bad, but Russia still had his chicken soup, which really wasn't half bad. And people said there was no such thing as free lunch.