A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Seven

or, Even More Acquainted

"Блядь!" (Fuck!)

America jumped up in his bed, quickly reaching over for anything he could use as a weapon. He yanked his lamp out of the wall, brandishing it like a bat before he even knew what he was doing. His eyes darted wildly around the room to see the source of the noise.

No burglars. No vampires crawling into his window. No werewolves here to tear his neck open. No commie here to finish what America started...

Something clattered outside of his room, and the Russian cussed again. Oh, God, someone was killing Russia! America leapt out of his bed and stumbled/sprinted his way into the main room. The instant he came around the corner, there was a man, and America slammed his weapon down on the head of the towering figure with a war cry. The porcelain glass fell around the man's head.

...Causing Russia to hiss out in pain. "Ow," he mumbled.

"Oh... Oh, my God, you scared me three ways to Sunday..." America let out an awkward laugh as he tried to calm himself down.

"No good alcohol," Russia mumbled, holding up the half-drunk bottle in his hand.

"Hey, wait, why are you looking through my shit?" Hadn't he specifically told Russia to not touch anything important?

"Because I want a drink." The Russian lifted the bottle to his lips and started to glug it again.

America snatched it out of his hands. "This ain't like your communist household, Russia! We don't share everything, and we don't like drinking outta the same bottles! It's dirty. Especially if that drink is a fine 1899 whiskey that cost me well over--" America's eyes had adjusted to the dark now, enough to see there was another empty bottle on the counter. "Okay, you are-- you're paying for both of those."

"Please, just let me have it!" Russia whined. He reached out for the bottle like a child reaching for its mother. Clearly, he was wasted: his words were slurred, he moved slowly, and his face and his cheeks were somehow even ruddier than before. The make-shift headband was tilted enough to cover one of his eyes rather than the sickle. Though that also meant Russia wouldn't be much harm now, even if he could see America's eyes. America could relax his mental shields a bit.

America held the bottle further away, but Russia virtually fell on top of him as the drunkard tried to reach it. They both fell back into a tangle on the floor, with America cursing and pushing. All Russia replied with was the successful theft of the bottle. Before even standing up, the man chugged it down as he straddled America on the floor.

America kept kicking. "Get off, fuckin' moron!" Finally, Russia stumbled up, still chugging the whiskey. With a groan, America peeled himself off the ground. "You probably broke something, fatass..." He said, pressing on his stomach where Russia had been sitting and wincing.

Russia blinked at him before shoving the half-empty bottle at his face. "Drink."

"What?" America tilted away from it, but Russia just pushed it closer.

"Drink. Will quiet pains," Russia explained as if speaking to a child. America grumbled and begrudgingly took the bottle to take a swig from it. Drinking at one in the morning. Sure, why not?

America's stomach boiled with insecurities as he looked at Russia's dumb, happy smile. Did Russia poison it? No, the man had drunk from it first. Unless the pill had been in Russia's mouth, disguised as one of his teeth. America had heard about that happening with the Nazis--

Russia broke through these thoughts as he grabbed onto America's wrist and dragged America to the living room and plopped down on the couch, pulling America down with him. America attempted to resist the entire time, but despite valiant efforts, he failed.