RUSAME - one shots

𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 (part i)

Broom closets are a great place to hide in theory. Theory, theory; Russia always had to make that mistake, didn't he? In practice, a broom closet is about two feet square and the smell of bleach was making him slightly nauseous but worst of all by far, he'd never had to stand this close to The US of A before. And America had this disconcerting habit of making unblinking eye contact and keeping it.

The strident footsteps outside paced in erratic circles while Russia rethought some significant life choices. It stung having his name on the same treaty as America's, but signing it had just made sense— of course, nothing was said back then about this ridiculous foolhardy spy mission they were now obligated to undertake together. A treaty is one thing; actually spending time together, quite another. But now he was here, and America was looking at him while he looked hard at a mop head, and an enemy country stalked the room outside and could keep doing so for hours.

"This is stupid." Russia's heart nearly jerked out of his chest at the sound of a harsh whisper that was sure to carry beyond the thin closet door. America was dragging a hand down his face in the dark like he was bored.

"Is this not exciting enough for you?" Russia mouthed furiously, gesticulating to the fatal broom closet.

"It's not." America couldn't take a hint nor sarcasm, and Russia was ready to strangle him. Why hadn't he ever learned to whisper? "Listen, let's—"

Russia pushed a finger to his lips so hard he stumbled against the broom closet wall, flailing for balance, catching the mop just before it clattered down. He could see the indignation, the rude remark bubbling up in America's mouth, and pressed his entire hand over his face.

"Shut up."

In the electrified silence, the footsteps strode off into the distance, and Russia held his breath, hardly daring to believe it. Were they free? He studied the strip of light that spilled under the door for shadows and found none.

"Okay," he breathed, ducking his head to look at America. "I am going to take my hand off and you are going to be silent. Got it?" Cautiously, he lifted two fingers, and America gasped for air.

"How come you get to ta—"

"No." Russia pressed his hand back down and narrowed his eyes, digging in his nails a little. "Try that again." This time, America acquiesced, though with considerable murderous rage. He shoved past Russia and eased the door open, flipping his idiotic sunglasses down as he did so, and held the door simperingly.

"After you."

"Right." Russia, nose wrinkled in distaste, couldn't walk away fast enough. "You, find the document. I will guard door."

"I thought I got to hold the gun!"

"As if. You will shoot yourself. Now look, and when you find it, bring it to me."

"Pfft. Right, okay. Do you want me to call you daddy while I'm at it?"

"Actually, I wish you would stop talking."

America rifled through the drawers of the dark wood desk, letting papers fall haphazardly back inside, as Russia hefted a glossy rifle and stood just inside the entrance, watchful and unblinking.

"I found it." Russia turned to see America on his back underneath the desk, sliding a packet from its underside, and a bemused laugh, rusty and disused, hacked from his chest.

"Hah. How did you think to look there?" America shrugged, grinning.

"I dunno, I just— Russia. Russia, behind you—"

Russia whirled a second too late, making startled eye contact with the enemy himself for one moment before the only thing he was looking at was the muzzle of a gun. His throat constricted as he shut his eyes, lifting his chin because damn if he wouldn't die like a hero— but there was no shot, just a wet, sickening crack. Russia opened his eyes and America had hurled himself between them, wrenched the gun out of the enemy's hands, and smashed him over the head with it.

"That's right," America panted, gripping the newly acquired gun in both hands. "That's right, you bastard. Ha!"

"They know we're here." Russia gritted his teeth, adrenaline coursing through his systems as he whipped back and forth, checking and double-checking the empty hall. "We need to go." He took off down the way they'd come, America at his side, hurling himself headlong down the hallway while it was still empty. A shrill alarm whined out of hidden speakers, and red lights flashed with a manic desperation that started a sickening pulse through his skull.

The door loomed sudden and godlike in Russia's path. Victory, success— he hurled it open and broke the confines of the building, a glorious blaze of night air temporarily distracting him, before a shout made him turn around. America was fighting off the grip of an enemy soldier, wrenching his fingers away but not fast enough; more poured forward, clasping his shoulders, wrists. The deadly cock of a gun, pressed to his temple, resounded through the hallway.

"Rus—" Gloved hands were pressed into America's mouth, effective as a gag. Russia watched him fight to keep his features neutral even as his eyes gathered panicked tears in the corners, and realized, a second too late, what he was doing.

In one motion, America dropped the file on the floor and kicked it like a football, and the sound of paper skidding across slick tile was deafening. He scooped it up on impulse, eyes never leaving America's for the half second it took for them to smash him over the head with a nightstick. The sound jolted Russia out of whatever stupor had claimed him, and he sprinted before their forces could take him too.

The night was cold, indigo and harsh, the bite of frost on the air, and Russia nearly ran headlong into a lamppost because the only sight that played in front of him, larger than life like a drive-in movie screen, was the limp twist of America's neck at the end. Confident he'd lost them, Russia lurched, hesitating: and breathed in shakily as he broke protocol and swerved into a sooty alleyway. Leaning against filthy brick, he stared, wide-eyed, at nothing. He had the document. The mission was categorically a success. He should be on his route to headquarters now, not standing idle in enemy territory.

America. They would torture him, probably. What was that to Russia? Who cared? The doubt that circled his mind, prowling like a shark, was inarticulate and vague. Eyes. His stupid, bumbling chatter. And yet. And yet. The way he'd thrown himself between Russia and the enemy without a second thought— without even a first.

"Rrrrgh." Russia fisted his hands in his hair, dragged them down his face until he was covered in soot just like the alley. No way in hell he was considering risking his life for this idiot, this sunglasses-wearing, bantering idiot.

And yet.

Russia swore blasphemously under his breath as he stowed the document firmly in an inside pocket, looked both ways, and stepped out of the alley back into the face of danger.

There is no good reason to retrace your steps on a spy mission. None at all. Russia knew this, walking with hands in his pockets back to the building under the glare of a cold, grinning moon. Not even one named America. However, this didn't slow his steps. If anything, he walked a little faster.