Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Slash, AU, swearing, sub-par writing, wonky plots, appallingly slow updates, and Hitler jokes.
I don't know what I'm doing.
Unbeta'd.
[Chapter 9]
Hollywood movies had prepared Alfred for car crashes. They had prepared him for brutal collisions, twisted metal, and horrific fireballs.
They had not prepared him for the deployment of his airbag. He had been taken completely by surprise, and now his nose was taking the brunt of that. But seeing as Hollywood had also prepared him for lacerations, broken bones, and internal bleeding, he wasn't that bad off.
Nose still hurt like a bitch though.
He reached weakly for the door handle and gave it a few harsh tugs before the door finally opened. Unfortunately, as his car had developed a thirty degree tilt to the driver's side, opening the door immediately preceded sliding out of his seat and flopping awkwardly onto the ground. His landing was followed by a creaking sound and a thump, which let him know that Arthur was alive and in much the same position that he was. Only Arthur probably had a larger drop to deal with, what with the tilt and all.
Alfred managed to pick himself up and stagger in a sloppy half circle away from the wreck before his legs decided he wasn't ready for motion yet and left him flopping on the ground once more.
From his vantage point, he could make out Arthur slowly picking himself up, leaning on the car for support. Alfred guessed that made Arthur the smarter of the two of them.
"You alive?" Arthur grunted.
"Yes." Alfred moaned.
"Try to sound more enthusiastic about that."
It was hard to be happy about life when your body felt like dirt after a particularly enthusiastic stampede had trampled it and your nose was hosting a rave party filled with knives that stabbed at your sinuses whenever the bass picked up.
Alfred's nose gave a particularly violent throb and he moaned again.
"Stop being a whiner." Arthur snapped and pushed off the car and into an upright position. It seemed his legs weren't working any better than Alfred's, because in the next moment he had toppled over backwards onto his ass. Muffled swearing could be heard on the other side of Alfred's car.
Alfred snorted in amusement, and immediately regretted it. The last time his nose had hurt this bad had been back in high school when he'd broken it in a football game. He grit his teeth and pushed himself upright, one palm down in the dirt to keep himself from tipping over. His other hand he brought up to his nose, prodding against cartilage with feather light touches. He gasped involuntarily at the resulting pain. But his nose felt the right shape, so he assumed he was alright.
He pulled his hand away and spotted blood on his fingertips and amended his previous assessment. Not quite alright seemed a better description.
"You doing ok over there, Artie?"
"Don't call me Artie." was the response. Yeah, Arthur was fine.
Alfred picked himself off the ground, and this time he managed to stay upright. Deciding this time it would be best to wait until he stopped wobbling before taking a step, he surveyed the damage.
Alfred had thought his car was about as durable as a soda can, but lying before him was proof that the crash test people knew what they were doing. Admittedly, his car was now a twisted heap, and who knows where his back left tire had gone, but he and his passenger were both alive and not too worse for wear.
He'd probably have to send the car company a thank you card. Did Hallmark make things for this occasion?
Arthur lifted himself up again, once more leaning on Alfred's car for support. Alfred's trunk, having decided it was never going to close again, wobbled in resentment as Arthur's weight pushed it down. The Brit looked exactly how Alfred felt. The cut on his forehead was still bleeding sluggishly, blood caked to his face and bits of his hair stuck up in tacky spikes. Every move he made screamed bruising.
"You alive?" Alfred asked.
"I'm above ground and vertical." he grumbled. Arthur managed to stand and made his way over to Alfred. Free of Arthur's weight, the trunk sprung open with a creaking thunk. The two of them stood side by side next to the wreck. Alfred wondered to himself what exactly they were supposed to do now. This seemed like the end of the road.
"At the end of the road road road road." echoed a disembodied voice.
Alfred and Arthur jumped. Alfred spent several seconds wondering if he had gone crazy before he figured it out.
Hitler.
Alfred made a mad dash to the vehicle and was able to pry Hitler out from under the remains of his gas pedal. He backed off, cradling the GPS to his chest with more affection than he had ever though he would give the device. Arthur looked on, slightly disgusted, as Alfred began to check it for damage.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking it for damage." Alfred answered. Against all odds, his GPS seemed to be functional. He scrubbed at a mark on Hitler's display, hoping it was dirt instead of a scratch.
"Stop it." Arthur commanded, something tight in his voice.
Alfred looked up from the screen, confused. "But I need to make sure it's ok."
"No. You don't."
"But I do. If Hitler's broken then I need to buy a new GPS, and I-"
"Would you forget the damn machine!" Arthur screamed and slapped Hitler out of Alfred's hands. The GPS flew out of Alfred's grasp and kicked up clods of dirt as it tumbled end over end for several feet before coming to a stop with a sad cry of "Road."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Alfred shouted. He made to go pick Hitler up, but Arthur began talking and he stopped in his tracks.
"The fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Tino just tried to have us killed, and you're worried about your stupid little machine!"
"But-"
"No!" Arthur interrupted. "I don't want to hear it! I've had enough of you and I've had enough of your bullshit! Do you even realize the situation you're in, or has a lifetime of fat rendered you incapable of thinking about anything other than when and where you can shove your next meal down your pie hole?"
Arthur stormed up to Alfred, now truly angry for reasons Alfred didn't understand.
"Three hundred million of you in this country and I get stuck with the stupidest-" he jabbed his index finger into Alfred's chest "laziest-" another jab "most useless mockery of an American it has ever been my misfortune to meet!" he finished.
Alfred lunged.
Arthur, caught off guard, didn't to get out of the way in time and Alfred managed to get him in some sort of stranglehold. He began making desperate attempts to hit Arthur, but Arthur had already wiggled halfway out of his grasp and had begun to retaliate. Unbalanced, but unwilling to stop attacking, they both fell over in the dust kicking and clawing and tugging and yelling at each other. Hitler added lazy commentary from somewhere to the left of the angry mass of limbs the two had become.
"You ruined my life!"
"You ruined your own life, git!"
"End of the road."
They rolled, both struggling to stay on top long enough to do damage to the other's face. Arthur was on top of him now, knees digging into his stomach and fists trying to find his face. Alfred tugged one handed at Arthur's shirt, other hand thrown up to protect his face.
"Are those your eyebrows or did a double decker buses park on your face?"
"Presumptuous vassal! Fat, greasy citizen! You foul, undigested lump of-"
"End of the road."
"Are those supposed to be insults? Call me a fucker and be done with it!"
"Wanker! I'll use small words so you can understand! You stupid fucking asshole! I've met some stupid fucks in my life, but they're all astrophysicists compared to you!"
They clawed at each other, looking for handholds or vulnerable places to inflict damage upon. Knees knocked against each other as they tried to strike or pin down. Alfred's glasses were askew. Their hair was mussed. They were bleeding from a plethora of new scratches and there was no way in hell they wouldn't be purplish and sore the next day. Arthur got in a good strike on his ribs, and Alfred had a revelation.
He was having a cat fight with a secret agent by the side of a road among the wreckage of the one object of any real value he had possessed.
He hoped this counted as the low point of his life.
If he ever sank further than this, he might just have to kill himself.
"You're emotionally crippled, your soul is a rotted carcass not fit for vultures, you couldn't have fun if your fucking queen ordered you to, and you smell!"
"Leave the queen out of this! At least I have some sense of loyalty unlike a certain backstabbing, uneducated, backwards, cow-fucking redneck!"
"End of the road."
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"I'm the guy trying to do his job, you must be the other guy. The one who can't take his hand off his sandwich long enough to actually do anything useful!"
"Fuckface!
"Is that all you-"
Alfred rolled them again, this time pinning Arthur to the ground. Arthur made an incoherent sound of rage and tried to twist free. Alfred kept him still.
"Fuckface! Fuckface! Artie has a fuckface!" Alfred sang. "Hey Arthur, what did the kids call you back in school? There must have been some good ones. Bet they all ganged up on ugly little Artie. Bet you didn't have any friends to defend you. Come on, what did they call you? You can tell me."
There was raw hurt in Arthur's eyes that made Alfred feel simultaneously diseased and empowered. He allowed himself to bask in the moment, not caring that he knew he'd regret all this later.
He was victorious for all of two seconds before Arthur managed to hit his already injured nose. He recoiled in agony and Arthur made his escape. The Brit scrambled to his feet, Alfred not far behind. They were both unsteady, and if this turned into a fist fight, they'd both just wind up on the ground again. However, it seemed like Arthur was no longer interested in going toe to toe with Alfred.
Arthur fumbled at his sides for a minute and then drew out his gun. Alfred was too angry and too fed up with his situation to feel fear right now.
"What? You gonna shoot me?" he laughed.
"I just might." Arthur growled.
"End of the road." Hitler said ominously.
"Go on, do it!"
"I'm warning you, Jones!"
"End of the road."
"I dare you!"
"Don't push me!"
"End of the road!"
"Come on! Chicken! Chicken! Chicken! Chick-"
Bang!
Few things in this world can get someone to shut up as quickly or as effectively as the sound of a gunshot. And, true to form, when Arthur's gun discharged, all attempts at conversation ceased.
Alfred gave a choked gasp and his hands moved instinctively, if belatedly, to wrap around his stomach.
"You-" he stuttered "You shot-"
Alfred lowered his gaze to the ground.
To Hitler.
That poor electronic bastard.
"You shot Hitler." Alfred said weakly. A small part of him found this funny. The rest of him was busy being terrified of the foreigner with the gun.
"Yes." Arthur holstered his weapon "I shot Hitler."
Alfred opened his mouth ineffectively a few times before managing to croak out "Why?"
"It was either it or you, and it deserved a bullet in its face more than you did." Arthur answered. He was strangely calm now. Alfred found it more than a little unnerving.
"Ok." he said weakly.
"If there's anything of value in your car, get it now. We're leaving." Arthur ordered.
"Ok." Alfred repeated.
He staggered toward the wreck. From the gaping opening of his trunk he pulled out the backpack of emergency supplies. The duffle bags in his backseat were harder to retrieve, as his rear doors were as determined to stay closed as his trunk had been to stay open. Eventually, he performed a careful wriggle through the widows, mindful of the glass, and pulled them out. Arthur watched as he slung them over himself and trudged back.
On the way, he picked up what was left of Hitler.
Arthur frowned. "Why are you taking that with you?"
"I might be able to fix it." he reasoned.
They both looked at the device. There was a rather obvious bullet hole in the middle of its screen. Manpower would not fix Hitler. Nothing short of a miracle would fix Hitler at this point.
"Ok," Alfred admitted "So maybe I just want to have something to comfort me in the shitstorm that my life has turned into. And since my car is totaled, this is the only friend that I've got!"
"Hitler is your only friend?"
"Well, you sure as hell aren't my friend!" Alfred shot back.
Arthur's frown deepened. "Face it, Jones. I'm the only friend you've got. I don't exactly like you either, but if we don't work together, we're not getting out of this alive. So drop that thing in the dirt where it belongs and let's be off."
The anger flared up in Alfred's stomach once more.
"That's it! Who gave you the right to boss me around? I'm sick of taking your stupid orders."
"Last time I checked, I was the man with the gun. That gives me all the authority I need to order your sorry ass around. Now let's go."
"No." Alfred said, digging his heels into the dirt and standing up straighter.
"Jones. I'm not in the mood for this. Start walking or I'll shoot you like I shot your 'friend'."
"You know what? Go ahead! Shoot me! It's not like you don't have a history of shooting your partners!"
Arthur flinched, eyes going wide. "What?"
"You heard me! Though I suppose I don't even rank that high! I'm not your partner, just a lackey! Guess that means you'll have no trouble shooting me!"
"Don't you dare make those sorts of accusations! You don't know the whole story! You don't know anything!"
"I know enough! I know what happened to them. And I know it was all your fault. How could I trust a person like that? How could anyone trust a person like that? How could anyone trust you?"
Arthur made no response, so Alfred continued.
"You say that you're trying to fix this, but the reality is that this is your fault. Everything that's happened has been your fault. You ruin lives, that's what you do. And you don't even have the common courtesy to own up to it, much less begin to fix it. I feel sorry for your partner. I feel sorry for anyone who had to spend any amount of time in your presence."
Instead of getting angry, Arthur... Arthur crumpled.
One minute he was standing ramrod straight and brimming with indignation, and the next he had sagged, his body language screaming defeat.
"Arthur-" Alfred began, not really knowing what to say.
"Go away, Jones. Just go away."
He opened his mouth to speak again, but Arthur was already walking away. His steps were slow, like he didn't know where he was going and he didn't have the energy to get there. Eventually, he sat down on a rock not far from the car, shoulders slumped. At a loss, Alfred staggered away.
If there was one thing Alfred hated more than anything else, it was being the bad guy. And right now he felt like the Joker, if the Joker had just released nerve gas on a city's worth of kindergarteners and then climbed aboard some sort of chainsaw machine to go wakeboarding through a sea of puppies.
Alfred didn't manage to get more than ten yards away before the guilt dragged him back.
Arthur was sitting on a large rock, almost exactly where he'd been when Alfred had left. He didn't turn as Alfred approached.
"What? Did you change your mind about being shot?" he said, but it lacked his earlier venom.
Alfred didn't respond immediately, instead he pulled a tire away from the wreck and dragged it over to Arthur's rock. He sat down, a bit too close for Arthur's liking if his edging away was any indication. It was only when his bags had been safely tucked next to his rubber seat that he spoke.
"When you first got me involved in all of this, I tried to tell you my story. You didn't care, you even told me as much. That didn't stop me from talking to you though. And you talked to me too. But it occurs to me that while you told me about your mission, you never told me about yourself. You said I don't know the whole story. How can I when you never bothered to share? That's why I came back. Not to get shot, I really don't want to be shot, but to be sympathetic."
Arthur waited until Alfred was done, and when he replied his voice was oddly subdued.
"Do you have the attention span of a gold fish? Do you remember what you said to me? What I said to you? What could we possible have to talk about? I think we've both made it explicitly clear what we think about each other. There is nothing left to say. So you'll excuse my disbelief when I hear you say you're offering me 'sympathy'."
Alfred sighed.
"Whether you believe me or not, I'm here to listen. So, Arthur, please-"
Alfred sent a look Arthur's way. It was hopeful, and desperate, and an olive branch if Arthur had ever seen one.
"Talk to me."
[End Chapter]
Hitler's dead.
I'd apologize, but, well, you try saying 'I'm sorry Hitler's dead' out loud.
It feels weird.
This chapter and the next really don't want to be written, but I'm trying my best to keep them from being too cringe worthy.
Continue?