Disclaimer: I do not own, nor will I ever own, Hetalia

WARNING!: Unedited, that is all

Chapter 2: Only a House Fire

Belarus stood by her stove, monitoring the food before her. Oil popped in a pan, little bubbles of the liquid jumping happily out of the pan, splashing onto her skin, but she didn't feel it. Her mind was elsewhere, a bad thing when cooking. In her living room, a fire crackled indifferently, consuming the wood given to it.

The scene from the evening before played in her head again followed closely by the scene from earlier that afternoon. She could still feel his warm hands sliding across her smooth skin, sending heat flooding throughout her body. She could still feel his lips against hers, kissing back vigorously. She could still feel his bare chest pressing into her arm.

Shaking her head, Belarus frowned at the bread pastries floating on the top of the oil, slowly making their way to a light brown. She just couldn't take her mind of that man, and she didn't know why which irritated her even more than just constantly thinking about him! Every time she thought he might be out of her head for a while, he just pops back up unannounced to torture her some more. She was getting sick and tired of it! It was funny because it was only the day after that first incident meaning there were many more days ahead of her that seemed like they would be just the same as today minus the falling into a frozen lake.

Sighing in frustration, Belarus scooped the pastries from the oil, setting them on a plate covered in napkins. Some of the oil splashed forward, landing on the fire, and the whole pot went up in flames.

Letting out a squeak of surprise and fear, Belarus jumped back from the pot. She snatched up a rag from the counter, threw it over the pot and turned off the flames. The small fire was quickly extinguished, but not before it had burned a hole in her dish towel. She stared down at the small, singed hole and sighed. "I liked that one too. It was from big brother," she sighed, pulling it from the pot, "Maybe I could patch it up."

She was staring down at the ruined rag when the smell hit her. It wasn't the smell of burning wood or burnt oil like you'd expect. No, it was the smell of smelting paint and burning carpet.
"What the hell?" she cried, her head snapping up to find her entire kitchen filled to the brim with coiling back smoke. Flames burst into the kitchen from her living room, curling around the doorframe and up her walls.

Backing up quickly, her back smacked into the opposite wall. Never pulling her eyes from the door, she searched for door that she knew was to her side. She backed out it before running around to the other side to see if she could get out the front door. She was only met with more flames. She ground her teeth wondering how she was going to get out, maybe through a window, when she hears his voice, the voice she'd been thinking of all afternoon.

"Belarus!" America called from somewhere behind her. She swings around searching for his voice, but the thick black smoke is all she can see.

Coughing hard, she called, "America?" She lifted the front of her pajamas to cover her nose and mouth, narrowing her eyes against the smoke. She ran the other way, away from the smoke and fire towards the back of her house, and literally ran into America. He caught her before she hit the ground. "America!" she cried, eyes growing wide.

Grabbing her hand, America pulled her along to the back of her house. A window stood open, the screen popped off and lying on the ground. Taking her waist, he helped her through the window before jumping after her. "What happened?" he asked, pulling her further away from the burning house.

She allowed him to pull her a safe distance away from the house before jerking her hand from his. "What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?" she snapped, anger and embarrassment tingeing her words. This was the second time he'd had to save her today. Was her bad luck extra bad this year?

He smirked, but shook his head. "A hero doesn't need to stalk girls," he said vainly before the grin fell, "I came to see if you were alright, Russia gave me your address, but I just found your house on fire. Are you alright?"

Belarus stared up into his concerned face. There was a black smudge across his cheek like the smoke had stuck to his skin. It was certainly obscuring the intoxicating aroma he unknowingly released on a daily basis. "I'm fine."

He looked away from her, up at the house now completely engulfed in flames. "Do you know how that started?" He pulled his black clouded glasses from his face and started cleaning them on his shirt tail.

She looked down at the dish towel she still had clutched to her chest. "No, I don't. I was cooking and then my house was filled with smoke, so no."

America sighed loudly, running his hand through his mussed hair. "I guess we should call Russia then," he muttered. He glanced down at her, running his eyes up and down her body. "If we can't get you some clothes before leaving tomorrow, you can borrow some of Hungary's clothes, or maybe Seychelles, but she's a bit small-chested. You'd fit into Hungary's clothes better." He was talking to her and not at the same time, fiddling with the phone in his pocket.

"Yes," she agreed, watching his fingers intently. She wondered what they'd feel like moving across more sensitive places on her body. At that thought, her face flared brightly.

Sighing once more, America finally pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed the Russian. The pair spoke rapidly for what felt like seconds, but was most likely actually a few minutes. Only minutes later, Russia pulled forward in his sleek black car, snow chains clinking across the gravel. "What happened?" he asked too innocently, nodding towards her house which was still burning to ashes.

"Isn't it obvious?" Belarus asked sulkily, sliding into the passenger seat of her brother's car seeing as hers was currently burning along with the rest of her belongings. Speaking of which… "My car is still in the garage," she said simply.

The two men stared at her in horror. Russia threw the car in reverse and America took off at a dead sprint back towards his car. They had just paused at what they thought was a safe distance when the tank of Belarus' car erupted. They watched the fireworks erupt, shooting into the dark sky.

"Well, that's… unfortunate," Russia murmured with little to no enthusiasm, "America, you can leave. We'll wait here for the police."

"Cool. I'll see you guys in New York tomorrow. I'm heading our tonight," he told them, glancing at his watch, "Actually I've got to get going now. My plane leaves in less than an hour." Despite those words, he still leaned into the car, his hands on the roof and the door.

Belarus stared ahead unable to look at the man who'd once again taken the initiative to save her. Honestly, who would do that? Not even her brother would risk his life for hers. Well, maybe, but she highly doubted it. Here was this nearly complete stranger though, saving her twice in the same day. A thought struck her, and her insides shuddered. Geez, she hoped this wasn't going to become a habit. She didn't think her sanity could take much more abuse, not that it could take much to begin with.

Russia's words brought her back into the reality. "Da, we'll see you tomorrow. Try not to throw anymore fits while you're still in the country," he advised with his trademark smile.

America scoffed. "I don't throw fits. I tell people what's right and listen to them argue with me," he corrected with a curt not. He still didn't move away from the car. No, instead his hand from the roof dropped to rest on the shoulder of her seat.

She fought to keep her eyes forward. When he still didn't move, she snapped at him, "Didn't you have a plane to catch?"

"Right," he murmured, staring at her intently. She felt her cheeks begin to heat again. "I'll see you tomorrow. Stay out of trouble." His fingers ran along her cheek, skimming across her lips for only the space of a heartbeat, then he was gone, walking towards his car.

She didn't catch the mischievous smirk Russia threw them, or even the gas can and matches seated on the floor behind her seat.

…..

"What the hell?" Romano shouted as they came out of the airport only to be hit with a blizzard, "What the fuck is with all the snow?" He shuffled closer to Spain, trying to soak in some of the heat the Spaniard always seemed to radiate.

"That bloody wanker lied to us!" England shouted indignantly over the roar of the wind, pressing his hat to his head

All of the higher altitude countries glanced at each other, smirking. "Looks like spring, aye," Canada said a little mockingly, giggling quietly into Kumajiro's fur at the nations' discomfort. Most people didn't know it, but Canada could be as sadistic as a mafia boss at times. When people glimpsed that side of him, they often never recovered from the shock.

Belarus stared up at the swirling snow wondering silently if it was like this all of the time. She'd only ever been to New York for World Meetings and for some reason there always seemed to be a bad storm going on at the time. She didn't mind. She was used to the cold. She took the first steps away from the airport, and her foot slid right out from under her.

The icy blacktop rushed towards her at an alarming speed. She was sure she was going to crack her skull open until a pair of strong, warm hands pulled her up just in time. "Got here just in time." She knew that voice, and felt her face turn strawberry red in mortification instead of embarrassment this time. He must think she was a stupid klutz like Italy at times, unable to go anywhere or do anything without supervision.

When she looked up into America's face, of course it wasn't derision that she found there. No, it was a bright, shiny smile, ready and waiting for her.

"Man, Natalya, you must have the worst luck ever," he said, pulling her to her feet and dusting the snow that had jumped up and grabbed onto her skirt off. She'd managed to borrow a dress from the ever helpful Hungary.

Frowning, she thought, 'When did he start calling me Natalya?'

"You stupid, lying asshole!" Romano shouted over the crowd of nations, glaring at the taller yet much younger nation, "It's colder than hell out here! My balls are falling off!"

"They can't fall off if you never had them to begin with," Denmark murmured to Belgium, making her giggle uncontrollably. The Netherlands glared over at him, but let it alone.

"Yeah, sorry, dudes. It started up right as your planes were landing. So my boss has gotten up train tickets down to Miami. Come on, it's not far," he said, motioning the other nations forward, his hand never leaving hers, "Onward to our destination!"

Now the embarrassment was setting in. She didn't want to be seen by the other nations holding the hand of such a twat. What would they think? What would they assume? That seemed much worse than just thinking.

With grumbles and small complaints from the others, they started across the street. He led them into a bustling subway. Packed from wall to wall were people. The milled around, shouting over each other to be heard. A violist played in a corner, unseen by most, the hum of his deep strings resonating deep within her chest.

"Don't let go of my hand," America called back to her, his grip tightening on hers. She was too short to see over most of the crowds' heads, but by the look on his face, he'd seen something that wasn't good.

Another hand latched onto hers. She glanced back and found Canada, slightly scared, but smiling sweetly, holding onto her hand. He was dragging along Italy who was in turn dragging Germany and so on.

The crowd pressed tighter in around them, crushing in around her. Her fingers began slipping from America's. That's when he shouted louder than anyone, "Pregnant women coming through! Make way! Some of them are going into labor!" Immediately, the press of bodies on her was gone, and some of the female countries, and even some of the males, began shouting as if they were in excruciating pain. He herded everyone into the nearest car, stuffing all of the nations, and no one else, into the confined space.

"Where are we going now?" Italy asked excitedly, his face flushed from screaming, and his eyes bright and open.

"Grand Central Station and then we'll be off to Miami." America still hadn't let go of Belarus' fingers.

Well, there you go. I hope you liked it. Review please! *begging on knees* Please! My self-esteem took a terrible hit during peer editing today in English… No, that's a lie, I'm not even going to listen to her suggestions. Anyway, you should edit or Belarus may somehow find a way to fall off of the train =D