If you’re taking prompts from that prompt post you just reblog fed could you do 19 or 26 for RusAme?
“19. Person A: “If I asked you to stay, would you?”*Person B: “Yes. Are you asking me to?”*
Alfred awoke with the warm scratch of a wool blanket behind his head and fur tickling at his nose. With a groan, he rolled over, reaching out blindly for the edge of a blanket to cover his frozen legs.
“Good morning,” he heard and Alfred peaked open one eye, looking at the snow god looming over him. Alfred closed his eyes and rolled back over, burrowing back into the thick blankets.
“M’ning” he mumbled sleepily. There was a laugh and the blanket finally covered his bare legs. With a smile at the gesture, Alfred burrowed further down and rolled his head back, looking up at the man before him. “What is that?” he asked, seeing the cup that the god held.
Ivan held out the sand colored cup, “It is spruce tea,” he said. “Traders up high north drink it in the winter.”
Sitting up from the nest of blankets and furs, Alfred accepted the mug, sniffing at the strong pine scented drink. It somehow reminded him of the beer from back home. He took a sip and swallowed quickly despite how it scalded his tongue. “It’s warm,” he offered and let the mug keep his hands warm.
Ivan sat down next to him, and Alfred could feel the cold radiating from him, but still he leaned towards him, resting his head against a shoulder that felt like a block of ice. “Your leg should be better by now, you can probably return to the valley again.”
Alfred hummed and took another sip of the too hot and too bitter tea. “Yeah,” he admitted. He could’ve returned about two week ago if he didn’t mind the pain. A week ago he could have bolted down the mountain easily. Alfred turned his eyes to look at the log home they were in, the murals that painted the walls with poppy red and sunny yellow flowers. The doorways and windows were caked in spirals of constant ice, but in the corner burned a fire, just for him.
The logs were low and mottled with white ash. “I can show you the way,” Ivan said and Alfred watched frost skitter across his skin like a glittering blush.
Alfred put down the tea and gathered a blanket further into his lap. All he wore was a long but thin linen night shirt and a pair of thick wool socks he had brought for hiking up the mountain. “Do you want me to go?” he asked without looking, instead playing with the white tipped fur warming his thigh.
Ivan looked out to where the world was white with snow. Winter in it’s full power. “If I asked you to stay,” he said quietly and Alfred’s nose felt red from his breath, “would you?”
“Yes.” Alfred said and bumped his arm. They finally met each other’s eyes and Alfred asked, “Are you asking me to?”
“Yes,” Ivan said.
“Okay then,” Alfred said and took another sip of the terrible tea. “We’ll have to get a proper bed then.
“Do you not like the blankets and fur?” Ivan asked and he rubbed his fingers togethers, snowflakes drifting to the ground in his wake. “Calm down,” Alfred said. “It’s all good and fine when you’re around, but when you’re sleeping until autumn–“
“I’m not a bear,” Ivan said with a rumble of laughter.
“I mean you said you go to sleep for like half a year,” Alfred pointed out. He put the tea down and grabbed the edge of a fur throw, tossing it at Ivan and climbing into his lap and kissed his jaw. “Sounds like a bear to me.”
“Bears do like honey,” Ivan agreed and kissed the top of Alfred’s head.
Alfred scrunched up his face, elbowing him lightly. “You really are a sap.”
“I just say it like it is,” Ivan said and pecked Alfred of the cheek. Then his forehead and finally his lips. “I am happy.”
Alfred buried his face into the linen of Ivan’s tunic as a blush cascaded down his face and chest. “Me too.”
So uh.... 3 or 27 rusame spy au? Love your work btw
Spy AU- I’m doing both so look out for the second one later, okay?
Sometimes it’s the quiet that hurts the most. The moments in between when there is nothing to distract you from the nothingness that creeps in your blood and laps at your mind like a sickly cold sea. When fingers twitch and fall still and your chest aches from the need to scream at everything , to cry and anguish until the sun is ripped from the sky and the world finally reflects what your have culling at your soul.
Alfred awakes, disoriented and aching physically from a dislocated jaw from their last mission. There are still red marks around his throat from when the idiot of the week grabbed him and tried to saw his trachea open. Alfred itches at the gauze wrapped over the wound and sits up slowly, looking out the window and into the brightness of the fingernail moon scratching at the sky.
A sound catches his ear and Alfred perks up, realizing what it was that woke him up from his drugged sleep. They’re back home. Together. And Alfred is alone in bed while the sound of retching echoes out from the bathroom. He slips the linen covers back, sliding his feet into slippers Ivan bought him last year for Christmas during a mission in Sweden. “Iv?” Alfred calls quietly and stands in the doorway, making sure he is making noise and deviating from his normally silent footfall.
The door is open, but Alfred knocks his knuckles against the wood anyway. He walks in, not bothering for an actual answer and sees his partner on the floor next to the toilet, head in his hands and shaking.
“Ivan?” Alfred tries again and kneels down the best he can, though it’s jolty and less graceful than he’d like. Alfred gives him space through, waiting by the tub and leaning against the porcelain. The cold leaches through his thin tee shirt, but it feels good against his battered jaw. Ivan doesn’t acknowledge him and Alfred frowns. He’s never sure what to do for things like this.
“Hey, Ivan, are you okay?” Even if Alfred is sure he knows what is going on, he wants to make sure it’s not something easier to handle like poison. At least he’d know what to do. Confidence was part of the job. Sitting on the porcelain tile at three in the morning with fumbled words wasn’t. That was just life, and Alfred wasn’t sure how to handle it sometimes.
“Go back to bed,” Ivan muttered finally. He didn’t look up, but scrubbed at his face with the back of his wrist. Alfred listened to the rasp of his skin against his stubble.
“You should sleep too,” Alfred said. The acidic smell of sick hung thick in the air and Alfred offered, “Do you need water–“
“Just go away,” Ivan gritted out, turning so he could lean against the wall.
Alfred backed away, kneeling and ignoring how the movement was sharp along his side. He didn’t know what to do. When Alfred was like this he needed distraction. Something to show normalcy and that everything was fine right now. He could pick things apart then, when he was distracted and had something to do. Ivan always seemed to understand. There were plenty of diners they frequented at 4 in the morning, with Ivan listening silently to Alfred blabber about different pies or what made a good waffle fry.
But Ivan didn’t do that. He was always composed. Always had it together. And when he didn’t and tensions were high, Alfred was there to sling back words and push right back. But this? The quiet? Alfred didn’t really know.
Alfred stood and left, letting Ivan sit in the bathroom alone. He pulled the wool blanket off of the bed and strode back in, face grim as he sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at Ivan. “You don’t need to hide,” Alfred said slowly.
Ivan looked up, and god his eyes were red and his face looked gaunt. Like he had been running through nightmares unable to stop. Alfred held on tightly to the blanket and took as deep of a breath he could. “I know that you think you always have to be the strong one, but sometimes it’s okay to let someone else take care of you.” Alfred paused and reached out hesitantly, fingers carding through him lank hair. “That’s all I’m trying to do, so please let me take care of you.”
And it was like the touch had broken something, shattered some unspoken resolve because Ivan’s face twisted, a cry held at bay before he delved forward, grabbing tightly onto Alfred’s leg and thigh and sobbing into his pajamas. “Shit, Iv,” Alfred whispered and slid down off the tub, pulling the blanket around their shoulders and wrapping his arms around him until it almost seemed like his embrace could engulf him. Alfred felt, more than heard, Ivan’s crying, and he kept himself wrapped tightly around him.
At some point, they fell asleep on the bathroom floor, because he awoke to morning sunlight streaming in between the blinds. Ivan was still asleep, hair askew and eyes puffy and dark. Alfred gathered up the Russian agent in his arms, murmuring softly that it was okay and to go back to sleep, and carried him to bed, pulling the blanket over him and settling in next to him, fingers entwined tightly.
Matthew scrubbed at his head, moving wayward curls aside before sighing inaudibly- only telegraphed by the pitching of his shoulders. He scooted closer on the bed, pulling both legs up until he was criss cross and facing his brother fully. Alfred bounced slightly from the movement, and straightened his spine despite the warm ache of his tired muscles. The sheets pooled into his lap like a protective barrier. “I just… woke up” he muttered and the bravado from his anger seeped out. Fatigue filled Matthew’s face and the shadows of the lamplight left him with haunted eyes. He scrubbed at his wrist with his thumb slowly, collecting his thoughts as he finally said, “That wasn’t a dream, was it?”
Russia squeezed his fingers closed around the edge of the pew as he recognized the man sitting down a few rows away. They all stopped as one. France's fingers brushed against his arm and Russia was moving, walking before his brain could even comprehend on what to say. What to do.
His hand lingered on the cold and worn wood before he stepped closer and took a seat next to America. Neither of them said a word. America did not look up. His hands rested limply in his lap- like he had almost put them together in prayer but had given up. Russia looked up to the front, where the altar stood illuminated, bare save a colored cloth and the sign of the cross. The wood creaked under his weight as he shifted, taking America’s hand in his own.
A soft sob bubbled out, and Russia turned alarmed. Some visitors walking by glanced in their direction, but nothing stopped and no one came to check on them. Russia put his other hand onto their joined fingers and America whispered out roughly, “I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Russia murmured, rubbing his thumb over America’s hot skin. It felt like he had a fever. His palm was clammy. America gripped his hand tightly and looked up with red rimmed eyes, bluer than the sky. “Canada is here, as is France. England is arriving any minute, and we’re all going to do whatever we can.” Because there was no other option. Russia, nor Canada, England, or France, were about to step aside and let whatever this creature was destroy America.
And Russia loved him. They were going to get through this.
Together.
He squeezed America’s hand, pulling on his arm until America leaned into his shoulder, shuddering and silent. Russia looked up, and Canada and France walked over. Canada put his hand on his brother’s head. France gazed out at the church visitors and volunteers, checking to see no one was coming close. America glanced at Canada, giving him a small smile and then rubbed at his nose and cleared his throat.
“You look good as ever,” Canada said.
“Shut up,” America chuckled. He squeezed Russia’s fingers again and stood up from the pew, pulling the other man with him as he slowly left the aisle. “How’d you find me?” He asked.
“France thought you might be here,” Russia said. America nodded, stoping at the top of the aisle and turned to look at Russia. “I did not think you would be,” Russia admitted.
America rubbed at his eyes again, allowing his hand to drag down on his face and rest at his chin as he looked up at the church ceiling. Light from the stained glass, though weak, made his skin a mottled blue and orange, his eyes glinting red.
“I don’t–“ He paused and shook his head, lowering his gaze to meet Russia’s. “Let’s talk about it later.”
“Later,” Russia agreed. He clapped his hand on America’s shoulder, steering him out of the church and the chilly Boston air.
America took a deep breath of the air, letting his lungful escape with a cloud of steam like a dragon. He glanced at the three other men and scratched his head. “Anyone hungry? I don’t remember when I last ate.”
France shook his head, saddling up beside him and hooking his arm within America’s. “Let us eat then. Even the devil doesn’t look so formidable with a full stomach.”
“Or after several glasses of wine,” Canada murmured as he walked past Russia.
“No wine,” Russia said with a frown, looking down as America tugged at his fingers, pulling him along as France steered them away from the the church and away from the busy road. America smiled at him. Not the usual bright and youthful one he was used to seeing, but something more solemn. Content. Russia rubbed his thumb over America’s knuckles in response. The smile grew and America turned back around to face France.
Within the hour they were nestled up against each other in a basement restaurant, elbows pressed up against each other as they talked and waited for food. The booth was tucked away from most of the people and they fell between lunch and dinner, leaving the old restaurant mostly empty of other patrons. Styled to match the old history of the city, the dark hunter green walls and dark wood tables was nearly cozy. France looked up from his phone, putting it down on the table with a clatter and said, “Well, what is the plan, then?”
America was looking over laced fingers, eyes unfocused as he stared at the darker corner of the restaurant, filled with old hunting paraphernalia. His blue eyes slid over, and he hummed, “Sorry?”
“What should we do,” Russia echoed.
America sat back, letting his head hit softly against the wood booth. “I don’t know. I have the house in Lexington, around here. We can go there for tonight, I guess.”
“We can go back to the city tomorrow,” Russia added. America’s chin jutted up as he looked at him, silently mulling over a thought. Russia was waiting for him to say something but the words never came.
America turned back to the other two, “We should go where there aren’t other people.”
Canada met Russia’s eyes and turned back to his brother. “Why?”
“You lot finally decided to stay in one place for more than three minutes, did you?” Russia watched England put down his suit case, sliding into the booth next to France without bothering to remove his coat. He immediately began to fidget, nearly hitting the other nation in the face as he fished out a wrinkled and water stained scrap of paper from his breast pocket of the camel coat.
America huffed out a strained laugh, “Was getting cabin fever.”
Russia put his hand down on America’s knee under the table.
England muttered to himself as he unfolded the paper, meeting America’s eyes for only a moment before slapping the paper down and pulling out a small pouch of what looked like black powder. “Pass the salt,” England said.
Canada slid the salt shaker down the table loud enough to get England to glance up and scowl at him for a heartbeat.
“What is that,” France said. He went to poke the pouch and England pulled it closer to him, not bothering to look at France.
“Tea, now shut up.”
“What sort of tea is that? It looks like ash,” France continued on, not discouraged at all by England’s actions.
“It’s something to help– ah that’s right two pinches–” England tipped the salt shaker into his hand and measured out the course grains, dumping it into the black powder when he was done. He dumped two spoonfuls into France’s stolen water glass, stirring and muttering under his breath as he did so. Russia thought it took on a sickly green hue, despite it remaining black as coal.
“Are you trying to banish me?” America joked weakly as he took the glass, considering it in the light.
“What’s affecting you,” England corrected, green eyes burning in laser focus. “Drink it. Quickly now.”
America stared at the glass. Russia squeezed his knee gently as silent support. He took a small sip, face immediately twisting into a grimace. “What the hell is in this?”
“Waitress,” Canada warned, giving America only enough time to hide the water out of sight behind a mirror as the waitress walked over to them.
“Decide on anything?” She asked, glancing at England added, “Can I get you anything to start with?”
“Water,” England said dryly without looking at her. He kept his focus on America and the hidden glass.
“We’ll take the charcuterie to start,” France said and gave a charming smile. “We’re still deciding.”
“I’ll come back then,” she said with a smile and pink cheeks before walking away. France’s smile melted away as he turned his gaze back to America.
“It’ll only taste worse the longer you wait,” England said, he tied the powder up, tucking it back into his coat.
“Like a shot,” Canada added.
America frowned at the dark liquor, before tipping his head back and downing the glass in two gulps. “Oh god,” he gasped as he finished, twisting away from Russia and Canada and retching.
“It’s not that bad,” England muttered, pulling the glass back towards him.
Russia rubbed America’s back soothingly. “What will that do?”
“Hopefully stop whatever connection was born. I don’t like possessions, especially ones I thought weren’t there.”
“Tricky devil,” France murmured.
America bent over, holding his stomach and pressing his head against the table. “That was disgusting,” he said, voice muffled.
“Possession?” Russia asked.
“Seems likely. It goes with what it was doing last year.” England pulled of his leather gloved and put them in in coat pocket, unbolting the long coat deftly. “I did some reading while I was on the plane. I have some ideas on how to get rid of it.”
Russia felt some of the tension finally leak out of his shoulders. He sighed. “That’s good to hear,” he said. He turned his head and watched America pillow his head on his arm, breathing slowly. America peaked out, poking out a black tongue at him before hiding his face back in the shadows of his arms. Russia chuckled, and continued to rub at his back in slow looping circles. “Do we know what it even is?”
England frowned. “It’s old. And dark. And was basically using him as an incubator.”
Canada scrunched up his nose at that and France frowned. “What does that mean?” Canada asked carefully, as though each consonant was made of glass.
“It means it was trying to use America as a amplifier. To grow it’s own power.”
“And do what?” Russia asked, hand stilling.
“I would imagine to kill,” America muttered.
There was a sick silence at that and America lifted his gaze. “too dark?” He asked.
“Not dark enough, I am afraid,” England said solemnly.
Russia watched America fidget with his fingers, frowning in apparent thought. “Can you stop it?”
“Yes,” England said.
There was a loud crash as the glasses on the table clattered, water slopping over the rims as the table wobbled from the force of America’s movements.
“Christ,” Canada said, grabbing the napkins at the table before anyone else could register what had happened.
America stared down at his own hand grimly, where he held a knife on his impaled hand, a second knife clattering away from his splayed fingers. Russia pulled America’s hand off, realizing he now had to decide if he was going to pull out the knife. “What–“
“Sorry,” America breathed tightly, clearly in pain but his eyes were bright and clear.
Canada stuffed cloth napkins into his hand, and Russia pressed them around the knife, still sticking through the back of his hand. England leaned forward, taking the second knife on the table out of America’s reach silently. He stared at the pocket knife and the sleek black blade before folding it back into itself and tucked it away.
America watched Russia press the napkins, watching the blood soak through and said in a voice so calm it was edging on hysteria, “It–I, well me…no, It,” America decided and anger thundered in his voice despite him not raising his voice. It was like hearing thunder in the distance and knowing the storm was coming soon. “I just had a vision of me slitting England’s throat,” America gritted out. “And that wasn’t happening.”
“So you stabbed your own hand?” Russia asked incredulously, voice teetering. He needed more first aid than napkins.
“Yeah,” America said. “I did.”
“Are you sure you know how to stop it,” France whispered to England.
“Yes,” England said resolutely, but his face was pale, and Russia was not sure he believed it any more.
Alfred sat on the Q train, watching the dark walls of the subway fly past. It was late, and the train car was nearly empty. A man slept on the far end and two women nearby giggled quietly to themselves, looking at their phones. Blue tunnel lights flashed as the train passed, looking like will-o-wisps guiding them. Alfred glanced back to the phone in his hand as it buzzed.
You should be asleep, Ivan texted
Alfred smiled to himself, leaning against the railing and texted back, late night- I’ll let you know when I get home.
He looked up at the dark window of the train car as he waited for a reply, closing his eyes for a moment. He shouldn’t have let the interns keep him out so late. They might not have work tomorrow, but he did. The train slowly rumbled to a stop, and Alfred glanced to the dark window again. His tired reflection looked back. The lights flickered and his phone buzzed with a new message.
Thank you, I will call you later today, we still need to figure out when I am coming to visit, Ivan texted.
Alfred smiled quickly typed back, Well, I think staying in the city is the best. Maybe we can finally watch those movies this year 😱👻🎬.
He hit sent and watched the message screen show Ivan was typing back. The lights flickered again and Alfred glanced up at the dark window once more.
A gaunt face with red ember eyes stared back. Jaw unhinged, rows of teeth gleamed in the light of the train car. Breath fogged the pane of glass between them. Alfred jolted back, hitting his head on the pole next to him.
His phone dropped to the floor, clattering loudly. The ghostly face in front of him dragged its finger, claws gouging the glass with a ear splitting screech.
The train lurched as it moved again, and Alfred swayed, nearly tripping over and toppling to the ground. He glanced at the two girls sitting nearby. One was watching him in puzzlement. The other, in true New Yorker fashion, ignored him and continued to scroll through her phone. When he stared back at the window, it was empty. The phantom was gone.
With shaky fingers, Alfred picked up him phone off the floor, scrubbing it against his jeans. Ivan had texted back.
That would be nice. I hope it is quiet this year.
Alfred looked back up at the glass. A passing light glinted off a deep gouge in the window.
Russia peered between his fingers, feeling steam fog against his skin and looked up to see Canada holding a cup of coffee for him. Russia accepted it and Canada sat down next to him. He tossed off the pillow tucked in the corner, and Russia bounced slightly with the motion. A few drops spilled over the lip of the blue speckled enamel mug and he watched it dribble to the floor. A problem for later. Russia sat back, fingers too hot from the drink and nearly burning. He took a sip. Too bitter. Not enough milk. He stared at the coffee table nearby where morning light illuminated years of milky water stains encircling each other.
“How’re you feeling?” Canada probed quietly. Russia glanced at him, turning away when France’s quiet French filled the room as he walked in, house phone tucked to his ear and shoulder. He balanced two plates of pancakes in his hands, setting them and some silverware down softly to the coffee table before walking out again. Russia translated France’s mutterings in his head, We do not know. We still have not heard. Canada grabbed the closest plate and handed it to Russia.
“Still tired,” Russia finally admitted as Canada gave him a fork and knife as well. He took another sip of the coffee, although it was still at a scalding temperature. The pancakes were golden and perfect in the center of the plate. Russia wanted to see patchily burned and chocolate chip smiley faces instead. He poked at the pancakes with a fork. France came back in, a bottle of maple syrup in hand and placed it deliberately in front of Canada. He glanced to Russia as he walked back to the kitchen and said with a smile as he covered the phone, “You really do not wish to see Matthieu without maple syrup.”
“Well, just be glad it was the Benadryl and not the sleeping pills in there,” Canada muttered after giving France a mild glare. He cut the pancake apart with the fork deftly and muttered, “Or the knife.”
Russia straightened at that. “I do not think he is dangerous.”
Canada frowned, moving his bite around in the amber syrup. “Why?”
“Why?”
“He drugged you,” Canada reminded him. He glanced at his cell phone as it buzzed and then turned back to Russia, “That’s bad enough isn’t it?”
Russia glowered at his food and cut into his food. France returned, phone call ended, and sat down in the opposite arm chair with a sigh. “England just arrived. Should be two hours before he gets here, and to quote him,” France raised his voice and gave a horrible rendition of a British accent, “Get some idea of where the fuck he went.” France took a bite of the pancake before leaning over and grabbing the syrup, drizzling it lightly. “He hasn’t called either of you?”
Canada muttered a sour ‘no’ and Russia just shook his head. “I have tried calling and texting him. No reply.”
“He changed his password,” Canada said and stabbed the pancake. “I tried to look him up on his phone’s location app.”
“When did he do that?” Russia asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Do you think he even has his phone still?” France questioned.
“Alfred would toss his phone away immediately,” Russia said.
“Alfred would,” Canada said. When both France and Russia turned to him, he added, “Is he even still Alfred? Has whatever it was that attacked him taken over some how?”
“He’s not gone,” Russia growled. Canada glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but he continued on, “He’s not. Alfred is still there. It would be dangerous to think otherwise. I know you doubt me,” he added, turning to Canada. He paused to push out the ire from his voice. It would do no good to make Alfred’s brother mad at him. Not during a crisis. “But if he were gone, why give me Benadryl? Why not the sleeping pills? Why not poison? Bleach in the water? He could have grabbed a knife. He could have smothered me at night with a pillow.” France looked out the window thoughtfully and Canada pushed his food around with a grating rasp against the ceramic. “His aim was to stop me from stopping him. Not to kill me. He could have done that easily. He’s strong enough.”
They all fell silent and France set down his plate. He stood up, brushing off his jeans and said, “I need more coffee, if we are going to be discussing things so grim.”
Russia finished his breakfast and said quietly as he dragged his fork through the remaining syrup and made swirls and patterns in it, “Do you think we are already too late?”
He knew Canada was looking at him, but he did not look up to meet his gaze.
Russia’s phone buzzed loudly against the coffee table, clattering as a call came through. The dish fell to the ground and coffee tumbled onto the couch as he lunged for his phone. Canada stared, frozen hanging in the air. Russia’s fingers slipped as he answered from the coffee and syrup but he held the phone to his ear and said, “Alfred?”
France came running back into the room and hung onto the doorframe. Canada stood up, putting the plate down and stopped in front of Russia.
“Russia?” Alfred asked breathlessly on the phone.
Russia’s eyes flickered up and he nodded once, before focusing on his boyfriend’s voice. Breathy and high pitched, like he was trying not to cry. Russia swallowed. His throat was tight. “Are you okay?”
“Am I o– What about– Icouldhave!”
“Alfred calm down,” Russia said, voice lowering gently, “Breathe,” he murmured in Russian.
There was a pause of static where Alfred took in a shaky breath. “I’m in Boston,” he said.
“Boston?” Russia said and looked up at Canada who pulled out his own cell phone and walked to other side of the room. “Where are you?”
“I’m near Copley Square. I don’t…” Another rush of static and Alfred’s voice pitched as he squeezed out, “I don’t know how I got here. I was talking with you about England coming early and then…I don’t know. I just woke up here.” Alfred was silent again, but Russia listened to his breathing. It was reassuring in its own way. “Are you okay?” The words were cold.
“I am fine,” Russia reassured him. France was on his phone as well now, arguing boisterously in French that Russia didn’t bother translating, and Canada was still speaking quietly on his phone as well.
“Are you sure?” Alfred begged.
“Alfred, take a deep breath…breathe again, Zaichik,” he murmured and turned to the window. Like he could whisper it to him right next to him. Like they were right there together and nothing was wrong.
“Did you just call me a bunny again?” Alfred laughed, hysteria edging his syllables.
“I could call you a cute fish?” Russia said.
Alfred laughed again. “That would be terrible, God. That would be awful. Please don’t.” Another pause. Then Alfred cleared his throat and muttered low and painfully, “I dreamed I killed you.”
“How?”
“W-what?”
Russia looked down at the bustling city through the window. “Tell me how.” He could feel both men’s eyes on him, but he stared down at the city steadfastly.
The hysteria was gone when Alfred responded again. “I slit your throat with a knife,” Alfred said slowly.
“Where?” Russia asked.
“Where? What does that matter–?”
“Where?” Russia asked again.
“In the woods,” Alfred muttered.
“It did not happen,” he reassured. Sometimes that was all you needed to hear. That it didn’t happen- that everything was going to be okay. Even if it was threadbare illusion. Sometimes that was enough. “ I am still in your apartment in New York.” Canada was pointing at his phone, showing he was talking to England. He held up finger and drew a question mark and pointed at Russia. “And I am going to come find you,”
“Russia–,” Alfred said shakily.
“Where are you?”
“Near the Public Library at Copley,” Alfred said. There was a loud sound, like a truck going by.
“Stay there. We’re all going to find you. Everything is going to be okay, Alfred.”
Russia tubbed at his head as there was silence.
“Alfred?” He asked. When there was no answer he swore and hit the wall with his fist. The lamp near him rattled. The line went dead and Russia stared at his phone. Russia took a long breath and then turned around. “How soon can we get to Boston?”
Canada turned and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his coat that was hanging there. “An hour flight. It’ll take us 40 minutes to get to the airport, but the car is already waiting. I called in a favor or two”
“I have the airport notifying England to redirect to Boston once he lands. He’ll only be an hour or so behind us.” France put his phone away, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he bundled up. A bitter North wind was already clawing at New England.
Russia nodded, looking down at his phone again in faint hope Alfred would call back. “Let us go, then,” he said, only stopping long enough to grab his own jacket, passport, wallet, and keys before striding out the door.
🎃🍁🎃
Boston was more gray than New York, and a chilling fog rolled off the harbor and the Charles, dimming the city even more. It was late in the afternoon, and the street lights had already sprung on. Russia stood at the top of the stairwell for Copley, looking beyond the green line banner and searched the crowded street. Canada stood next to him, looking around as France finally walked up the stairs, adjusting his scarf to cover his chin. “This is where he said he was,” Russia told them.
“Where do you think he went?” Canada asked and turned around to look at the grand stone face of the Boston Public Library.
France pointed to a building on the other side of the street. “That is a church, no?”
Canada turned to glance at it and then turned back to the Library. “He’s not religious.”
Russia nodded his head, not bothering to look. “The only time he goes is for Easter and Christmas,” Russia said, looking away towards the busy street.
France frowned. “I think you are dismissing this too quick.” When Russia turned to face him, France gestured to the Gothic facade. “He has always searched for comfort at churches.”
Canadas brow furrowed. “I don’t know about always…”
Russia studied the tan and brown building before him. “He has never mentioned that to me,” Russia said slowly.
France checked both ways before darting though the busy street, grabbing Russia’s hand as he did so. Canada’s curse was muffled by the cars, but he jogged behind them, waving in apology when a car honked at him for delaying traffic.
France was already walking to go inside, looking at the visiting hours briefly and muttering, “If he is not here, we will check the library. He has always been a boy of science, but this is a matter of the heart.”
was it a matter of the heart? Russia had his suspicions. This was ghosts. Lore. Demons.
Perhaps a church was better.
The church was dim as they enters, quiet as visitors looked at the architecture and stained glass windows. France moved deftly through the few visitors there, heading towards the stately pews lining the center of the cathedral.
And there in the far left, where there were few people and the shadows seemed thicker, was a head with mussed blond hair, bowed down in thought.
“You,” Alfred said as he leaned over his boyfriend and plucked the glass with last dregs of whiskey from his pliant fingers, “Are officially cut off.”
“Baby,” Ivan whined. He drunkenly leaned over and rested his head on Alfred’s stomach, making him choke as he downed the last bit of alcohol from Ivan’s glass. “No.”
“Baby, yes,” Alfred said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He pointed at Gilbert and Francis and said, “I’ll be talking to you tomorrow, assholes.”
Gilbert wordlessly held up his glass and Francis burst into laughter. Toris waved wordlessly next to him. Alfred sighed as Ivan rolled his head, still pressing uncomfortably into his stomach, and carded his fingers through his hair. “C’mon babe, let’s go home.”
Alfred sighed when Ivan began mumbling into his shirt and pulled him away. It took some coaxing, but after about five minutes and dodging some very wet drunken kisses, Alfred had him wrapped up in his winter coat and scarf. He went to pay for Ivan’s drinks but Arthur held up his hand, “Francis’ll get them. Thanks for grabbing him.”
“Thanks Artie,” Alfred said. He latched onto Ivan’s arm and began pushing him out of the small expat bar. Hundreds of small flags lined the bar walls and plastic airplanes hung from the ceiling. “He usually doesn’t get this bad.”
“Yeah, well, I would’ve cut them off earlier if I knew how much they drank. I just got on shift. I’ll have to talk to the new guy.” Arthur eyed them as Ivan pushed one of the planes dangling near them and bubbled into laughter.
Alfred sighed. “See you later, Artie.”
“Goodnight Al.”
It was a cold night. The snow on the ground crunched loudly as they walked down the recently shoveled sidewalk, leaving the warmth of Nemo’s Bar behind them. Ivan leaned against Alfred heavily, nearly toppling them into the snowbank. “You have to stand up,” Alfred pleaded.
“You are so warm,” Ivan moaned. “Little bunny.”
“Not if I’m lying in the snow.” Alfred pushed him away gently and steered him down the dark street to where his car was parked. “Is that a new pet name? Not really digging it.”
“No,” Ivan muttered, pouting at Alfred as they walked hand in hand. “Soft like rabbit. Small.” And Ivan, that big lug, teared up and sniffled loudly. “So small.”
“Oh god,” Alfred said. Thank god it was late enough most people were home but not late enough for the bars to let out. He was never going to live this down. “Please don’t cry,”
“You are so small!” Ivan cried drunkenly. They crossed the road at Alfred’s gentle tugging.
“Yeah?” Alfred said. His car was so close. They just had to pass the park.
“Yes.” Ivan muttered in Russian and then added, “I can hold butt with hand.”
Alfred stood under the street light as he looked for his keys. “Weird standard. But okay, uh. Small butt?” Guess he needed to do more squats or something. He grabbed his keys and smiled at his drunk Russian.
And Ivan wailed, crouching to the ground and he cried into his hands.
“What the– Honey? What the fuck?” Alfred kneeled down and his jeans got wet from the snow. “Babe? What’s up?”
Ivan looked up at him from under fringe of his hair. “You are so beautiful,” he moaned.
“You are so drunk,” Alfred responded. He patted Ivan’s shoulder. “Hey, you’re beautiful too, okay?” God he smelled awful like cheap beer.
“No. Handsome,” Ivan argued, stopping his crying quickly.
“Okay, bud.” Alfred unlocked the car and walked over to open the car door for Ivan. “Let’s get you–“ And Ivan collapsed onto Alfred crumpling them both into the car. Ivan giggled and Alfred rubbed at his forehead where he hit it against the wheel.
“Seriously?” Alfred wiggled out from Ivan, smiling despite biting his cheek to stop, at the unguarded laughter coming from his boyfriend. Ivan watched him as Alfred hushed him and buckled him in, then closing the door gently. Alfred stared up at the clear night sky, smiling at the stars. He got into the car, putting the key into the ignition when two cold hands wrapped around his face and pulled him into a deep kiss.
Alfred pulled away, shaking his head. “Hey bud, you’re drunk.”
“I love you,” Ivan said seriously.
Alfred turned on the car, letting the heat blow over them. “I know.”
Ivan put his hand on Alfred’s cheek and he turned to look at the drunken man. “I’m going to marry you.”
“Say what now?” Alfred stared at him but Ivan turned to look out of the windshield and shuffling around his coat.
“I marry you, yes?” Ivan stopped shuffling and said. “And we will have three dogs and two children and white fence and pie.” Ivan turned to him, face serious. “Okay?”
“Okay?”
Ivan smiled relieved and sank into the passenger chair. He held up a finger as if warning him of a secret. “That is why we celebrate, yes? I ask for hand from father and he say yes.”
“Say what now?” Alfred blinked. His face felt hot. Was his heart supposed to be beating this fast?
“And we plan question time.” Ivan smiled brightly and Alfred found himself lost in it. He rarely saw him grinning so happily. “Francis say we celebrate.”
Oh. So that’s why they were drinking. And then Alfred found himself staring at a box in Ivan’s palm. Ivan was still talking about what they had done at the bar. Alfred lunged over the seat and kissed Ivan. He tasted like whiskey. He put his palm over the box.
“Yes,” Alfred laughed at Ivan’s confused look when they parted. “God yes, but ask me properly. Keep this a surprise, okay?” he closed Ivan’s fingers around the box and put it down on his lap. He held up a finger to his lips and Ivan mimicked him.
“Yes,” Ivan agreed. And then he yawned and put the box away. “A secret.”
“Yep.” Alfred put his hands back on the steering wheel and began to shift gears to pull out when Ivan suddenly said, “Sing, please?”
“Sing?” Alfred glanced at him and then pulled out onto the empty street. “What should I sing?”
“A love song.” Ivan help a finger up to his lips. “Because I am in love.”
Alfred felt this throat tighten. Fuck. Look at these two idiots crying in a car, he thought to himself. “Okay,” he said with a slightly cracked voice. He cleared his throat and began their drive home, the green light of the stop light painting their skin as they drove under it.
“You fill up my senses…” Alfred began …”Like a night in a forest,” he sang and turned down the road to their home.
Welcome to my Halloween Story! Have fun! It’s gonna get Spoooooky in here...keep the nightlight on.
[Unknown Spirit] [Ao3]
<== [Previous] [Next Chapter] ==>
Russia sat on the stool in America’s apartment kitchen, looking out the dark window and down at a restless city. The refrigerator hummed and a soft green glow from the microwave soothingly lit up the room. It was 2:49 am and he couldn’t sleep.
Nothing was right. We was worried and the raw edge of his lip where he had been chewing on it all day showed that. When he talked to America on the phone every day nothing seemed different. He had just been here in July with Arthur, making sure their disastrous Halloween last year hadn’t affected him. England had been cautious, but at the same time hadn’t been able to see anything wrong with him. Russia hadn’t noticed anything until he had landed in the airport and stared at his boyfriend’s exhausted eyes.
Two warm arms snaked around his waist and Russia jolted, turning his head and knocking it sharply into the person behind him. Warm breath puffed into his ear and America dipped down, filling his vision with a tired laugh. “You startled me,” Russia growled. America hummed, leaning forward more so he could rest his head on Russia’s shoulder, tapping his fingers arrhythmically against Russia’s stomach where he held on. Russia sighed and raised a hand to thread through America’s hair, wavy at the nape of his neck and damp from the shower he had taken earlier in the day.
America hummed again and released his grasp. Russia felt the cold seep back in instantly and placed his hand on top of America’s to trap him there. Chuckling, America said, “Come on back to bed.”
Russia swiveled in his seat, bumping his knees into Americas and looked up at his boyfriend. He looked tired. Exhausted. Worse than he had at the airport. America slid between his legs, brushing some hair away from Russia’s face. Without his glasses on America always looked younger, but somehow, even in the cool green electric light, America seemed brittle somehow. Russia tightened his knees together, trapping him. “Jet lag,” Russia mumbled.
“Mm.” America pat his palm against the fleshy mound of Russia’s cheeks, grinning at the last second as he grabbed on and pulled Russia’s face into an unamused smile. He laughed and Russia watched joy bloom. He was smiling less. Laughing less.
Russia wondered if America was scared for the first time.
He had been shaken up. When everything had finally calmed down and America had explained the unknown creature that had hunted him and forced him to imbibe it’s blood, he’d been cavalier about it–erupting ire from both his brother and England.
It’d been different for Russia, who had watched him spend restless nights staring at the ceiling and clenching the sheets in silence. When Canada finally left two days after England, America’s mood had dive-bombed until every word was caustic. They’d fought. Bad. And in the end America had ended up curled up on the floor with Russia holding on to him, as though it would be enough to put the pieces back together again. They fell asleep on the hardwood floors and the next morning, after America kissed apologies into his skin and Russia whispered asks of forgiveness into his hair, they never spoke of it again.
And months had passed. Nothing was wrong.
But now, with October nearly dead, Russia knew with a sick certainty that something was very wrong.
Back in the quiet of the kitchen, Russia batted America’s hands away and picked up a glass of water from the kitchen island and took a long sip. America yawned, walking over to the cabinets and dragged out another water glass. He silently turned on the tap, then turned around and took a deep gulp. As he looked out of the window, Russia wondered if he had gotten thinner. The shadows of the room made him look gaunt. None of this was good.
America leaned against the counter, looking down still at the warm glow of the city, and Russia let his gaze wander to the wall, looking at the shadow he cast.
He was seeing problems everywhere. America was too tired. Too thin. Too quiet. Nothing seemed right. There was an unease he couldn’t explain. A cotton wet chill that stuck to his bones. Russia turned his head away and looked back at Alfred, ignoring his imagination. Now he was loosing it. Shadows. What was there to be scared of shadows? He stood up and frowned down at his legs as his knees popped. Long flights were terrible. Russia glanced up and realized America was watching him, finishing off his water languidly, Adam’s apple bobbing mesmerizingly. He was the center and sole focus of that blue gaze. Russia smiled softly. Flights were awful but they were worth it if America was there at the end of them, waiting in the airport with an obnoxious sign and a Hollywood smile.
“Why did you get up?” Russia asked, sliding his empty glass forward. America whisked it away and dumped it into the empty sink, leaving the dirty glass for tomorrow. His own glass joined in the basin.
“Just did,” America replied blandly. He tapped his fingers against the counter and yawned. “C’mon. Let’s get back under the covers. Freezin’ out here.”
America walked over to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him up firmly. Russia stood up, tucking the stool under the island with his foot and let America pull him to the dark den of the bed.
“I know the way to the bed,” Russia said.
“Maybe I don’ wanna let go,” Alfred countered, not looking back at him as he kicked the door back open.
He flopped into the unmade bed, a stylish indigo and white pinstriped linen that was too tasteful that when he had glanced at it America had replied with a roll of his eyes, ‘Arthur’s birthday gift to me. At least it isn’t socks this year’. Russia soft of missed the gaudy superhero sheets he usually had. They were a cheerful red. He’d changed out the old red curtains too to white.
Now America pulled Russia down with him, and he bounced along with America on the mattress. He grabbed for a pillow and America tossed the down blanket over them, encasing them back into the warm nest of their bed. America immediately pressed his cold toes into Russia’s legs and he arched away from him, hitting America in the chest with the pillow he had grabbed.
“I thought you’re supposed to like the cold,” America grumbled playfully. His face looked sour and then broke out into that muted tired smile.
“I am tolerant to the cold,” Russia announced as he pulled the pillow back and started to fluff it to his liking, all the while enunciating the constants sharply. “I do not like it.”
“You do, too,” America argued. “You like snow.”
“Everyone likes snow,” Russia countered.
“Nuh-uh,” America said and nestled closer to the other man. Russia looped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tighter until their sides were pressed together, nearly uncomfortably.
“Yes, they do,” Russia said and avoided the childish vocabulary of his boyfriend.
“No,” America yawned and closed his eyes. He still looked tired. A golden thread of light that seeped through the closed curtains curved over his chin and ear. Russia pushed away a damp curl again and rasped his fingers down his jaw where the light melted against his skin.
“Yes,” Russia said quietly and watched America’s chest even out into the unhurried pace of sleep. He held on tightly. Counted America’s breaths. Counted his own heartbeats. He still couldn’t fall asleep.
And in the corner of his eye, something moved.
There was nothing there, of course. Nothing but America’s disheveled laundry and Russia’s shaving kit. But the unease built up on his lungs, pressing down until it felt hard to breathe and anxiety prickled his skin.
There was nothing but shadows. There was his own, dim and gray in the dark room. It slid in and out of existence as he waved his hand back and forth through the thread of light. But the other shadow.
Alfred’s hair and shoulder and leg. That he could see. But it was dark. Inky.
There was something not right, but Russia couldn’t say what it was. There was nothing wrong. It was a shadow. It looked like a shadow. It acted like a shadow. He was over tired from traveling, and he knew America was in danger from all the horror of last year, and he was literally jumping at every shadow that so much looked wrong.
He needed to stop acting like a child. America needed him.
Russia covered his eyes with his hand. He needed to sleep. He turned back and faced America and felt his warm breath on his chest. The shadow didn’t move. But it seemed darker. Bigger. Encompassing.
Russia fell asleep eventually, able to put away thoughts of shadows away for just a moment and enjoy holding the other man in his arms in the quiet apartment.
🎃0🎃0🎃
Russia sat at the kitchen table once again, rubbing his face with his hands as he listened to England bitch him out.
“I’ll be there by Wednesday. Why didn’t you call me sooner? You should have called me at the airport!”
Russia rubbed at his temple. America was still asleep and the glow of a hot orange sun bathed the room. He pulled down at his scarf. It was already too warm. “I did not put everything together until last night,” Russia admitted. After America’s call and distracted voice and the hour it had taken for him to get home…everything was painting a picture that made his head hurt.
“Then you should have called me then,” England hissed. The phone crackled with static as he sighed. Russia looked down the long hall to the bedroom as he heard the door to the bedroom creak. America was up, then.
“I should have called you,” Russia agreed. He tapped his fingers against the counter and glanced down at his phone, pulling it away to watch the call run past the half hour mark. Canada had texted. He’d be here tonight. With France, apparently. Wonderful.
“No use worrying about it now,” England muttered and Russia scowled. Said, of course, after a half hour of furious scolding. “Keep and eye on him. Don’t even go to Central Park, do you hear me? We are all on lock down right now.”
Russia nodded and muttered, “We will stay in then.”
“Who’s that, babe?” America asked with a yawn. He gave a sloppy kiss to Russia’s cheek and laughed when Russia looked up at him with a narrowed gaze.
“Arthur,” Russia said. America cocked his head and stumbled over to the cabinets to get his coffee. Russia had already made it and when America saw the full pot he turned around, Making a heart with his hands and mouthing ‘I love you’.
Russia kissed the air and returned to arguing with England.
“I mean it,” England said. “The results could be disastrous.
“Everything will be fine,” Russia argued.
“I hope so.”
“Tell Egg to take a chill pill,” America muttered into his mug.
“Egg?”
“Did he call me fucking ‘egg’ again? I’m going to kill that little brat when I see him.”
“Let me know what flight you’re taking,” Russia said, and glanced over to America when he stiffened.
“Of course I will. Goodbye, Ivan.” And then he hung up.
Russia ensured that the phone call had ended and pushed his phone away. He picked up his nearly cold tea and watched America blink and bite as his lip. He looked into the distance, to the blank wall behind them. Russia tapped his nail against his mug and America focused his gaze back on him. Sharply.
“Why is England departing so soon?” America asked. “He should be arriving next week.”
“Yesterday unnerved me,” Russia answered honestly. “I want them here early.” When America stared at him, he added softly, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” America spit out, recoiling back. Russia sat up straight. “I don’t need any babysitters.”
“Alfred,” Russia said. He left it there as America turned around, touching his forehead and clenching his eyes shut, breath hissing slowly from clenched teeth.
“Sorry.” The kitchen was uncomfortably silent. America took a sip of his coffee and turned back, regret bright in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m not–“ he stopped, as though the words were trapped on his tongue. “I’m not sleeping well.”
“Nightmares?” Russia asked after studying America’s face in silence.
“Yeah,” America admitted quietly. “I can’t really sleep through the night anymore.” He looked out of the window instead of meeting Russia’s eyes.
Russia took a sip of his now bitter tea and pushed it aside. “Okay,” Russia said.
“Okay?” America asked, voice high in confusion.
“Yes.” America shifted his stance and looked away again. “I do not know what is going on, Alfred, but I want to make sure you remain safe. I need you to tell me what is wrong so I can help you.” He held his breath for two heartbeats when America met his eyes again. “Let me help.”
America tapped his fingers against his mug and stepped forward, putting his splayed hand down on the dark marble. Russia let his fingers crawl over the digits, rising and falling as he touched each knuckle and traced a vein before holding his hand in silence. “I just can’t sleep. I think that’s all.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t drink coffee,” Russia said and leaned forward, pulling the mug out of his hand gently.
“I don’t really want to go to sleep,” America admitted, looking down to the floor.
Russia’s mouth felt bitter. He should have been here sooner. Something was absolutely not right.
“England said we should stay in today,” Russia offered. “Maybe you can take a nap. I will be here.”
“That might make it okay,” Alfred joked, lips only half twisted in a smile. And then it fell, twisting into a deep frown. “Wait, like not go out at all?”
“No,” Russia said.
“Well, I have to.” Alfred’s fingers started to clink against the counter rapidly, as though he was angry.
“No,” Russia repeated.
America’s eyes looked dark. Like the ocean pulled into the depth and leaving a barren beach. “I have a meeting at work I can’t miss.”
“We can call out sick.”
America watched him intently and the same cold feeling filled Russia’s stomach again. The other man turned and he said sharply, “Fine.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle, upturning it and pulling two pills out. He filled a glass of water and put both in front of Russia.
“What–“
“–Your head hurts. Take the Advil.”
And indeed Russia could feel the familiar pressure against his teeth of a sinus headache coming. He accepted the medication and drank it quickly. America took the empty glass and put it in the sink, washing it out and putting it to the side to air dry.
“Why can’t we take a taxi?”
“I don’t think it is a good idea,” Russia said slowly.
America sighed, touched his head again and finally blinked, stance relaxing. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll let Jenna know I’m out with the flu or something.”
Russia wanted to offer to write the email instead, but squashed it. He trusted America to call. In fact, when had he started doubting him? Russia shook his head. This was going to be a long two weeks.
When America came back, his sour mood was gone. “Okay, Jenna’s good, so let’s watch a movie or something.” He nudged Russia as he walked by and picked up a banana for breakfast, “I get to choose since you’re keeping me here as prisoner.”
Russia scowled, “ I just–“
“–Want to keep you safe, I know sweet pea.” He flopped down on the leather couch in his living room and grabbed the remote. “Let’s start with Air Force One and then Rocky IV and then–“
“I get it,” Russia said dryly and took his place by America’s side. “But we are not watching those.”
“Fine. All of the Marvel stuff. In chronological order.”
“Fine,” Russia said and America hissed ‘yes’ and pulled up the first movie.
America kept his attention on the film without his usual banter or random movie facts or personal Hollywood scandals. Russia put his hand on America’s ankle, stroking along the tendon. Russia glanced at America’s shadow, which seemed deeper than the rest of the dark corners of the room. He yawned and rested his head on America’s shoulder.
By the middle of the movie, Russia could barely keep his eyes open. He found himself nodding and would startle back to wakefulness. But America kept his eyes focused on the movie. Nearly unblinking. Unnatural.
Russia grabbed America’s arm as he realized the tiredness was more than jet lag and stress. “Alfred,” he growled. But America didn’t turn. Black was creeping up, warm and lovely and dangerous.
“It’s okay, Ivan” America said. Or maybe he dreamed it as his head fell against the couch arm.
🎃0🎃0🎃
He awoke to sharp knocking and raised voices. Russia groggily stood up, catching himself on the couch as he nearly toppled over. The apartment was pitch black. “Alfred?” He croaked out, throat dry.
The door rattled and the lights went on, burning away the darkness and hurting his eyes. He knew someone was talking to him, but Russia couldn’t understand. Cold hands touched his face and he gazed into soft and worried eyes.
He blinked, coming to his senses and Russia mumbled, “Matthew?” He looked around, still tired and nearly falling asleep again. “Why are you here? I thought you would be here late.”
“Russia,” And Russia turned to look at France looking at him in worry. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Where’s America?” Canada asked.
Russia blinked and cold fear stabbed through him. Where was Alfred. Where was he? Reading his fear, Canada turned and looked to France. “Check the apartment.”
But Russia already knew the answer. He pushed himself away from Canada and cast his head into his hand, feeling nauseous and cold.
Minutes later, France returned with a grim face. “He’s gone.”
