A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Eleven

or, the Confrontation of Emotions

America and Russia eventually went home, well-fed and happy, but America became significantly more embarrassed after all of his brother's teasing. They thought he was diseased! They thought Russia was diseased! The audacity, the offence! But of course, it was all the result of a misunderstanding, one that had fantastically covered up the real reason for Russia being here. America wanted to damn himself for being so paranoid because he could never deny a good cover-up.

And Russia calling himself America's boyfriend wasn't the worst thing in the world.

He sent Russia to bed on the couch, and then he laid down, thinking about things. At this point, what was he going to do? He had been praying that the half-assed plan he came up with a few days ago would bring up the next steps naturally, but so far, it had just led to him getting more fond of the kid and unsure of how he'd separate Russia from his father and also scared of what would happen when Russia found out that 'Meri' had lied. Multiple times. And had also tried to kill Russia's dad.

That would be a stumbling block to any friendship.

But suddenly, as he was lying there, the phone rang. America was perplexed as to who would be calling at this hour, and also who knew about this number. It was only shared amidst NATO and America's closest companions, a.k.a. Mexico and Canada. He wasn't frightfully angry, though, because he wasn't even close to falling asleep. His worries made his brain buzz too loudly for rest.

America stumbled to the phone and answered that. "Hello?" he mumbled into the receiver.

"S-sir! I've got some more information--"

America sighed at the familiar voice, rubbing his temples for a moment. "West, you do remember there's a time difference, right?"

"I--... Oh, right. I--"

"It's two in the morning. You're lucky I haven't gone t'sleep yet. But don't call at this hour again."

"Y-yes, I'll keep that in mind."

There was a moment of silence.

"So, what did you want t'say?"

West coughed at the other end of the line. "Yes, of course, sir. You might recall from our previous conversation that the, ah, thing I was concerned about was having more frequent encounters with a before rarely-appearing substance?"

This strange language made America pause for a moment before he realized what West was doing. Only by defining the vague statements in light of what they had said to each other last would it make any sense, so that anyone tapping the phone line wouldn't be able to get any useful information.

"I recall," America said. "And understand."

"Well, s-sir, the substance is now permanently in presence with the thing."

"You're positive?"

"Of course, sir, the substance hadn't left since your last knowing of it, and recently brought in all of the necessary attachments and was in the vicinity of the thing for the past seventy-two hours."

"And you don't have any other information?"

"No, just my observational notes."

"Scratch my last orders, call the moment anything new happens."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Good luck t'you."

America felt the click on the other line like a brick dropped on his foot. What could it mean? The USSR was currently staying with East Germany. America couldn't help but feel that the Russian was on his trail, especially considering his most recent trip to Berlin. Perhaps Russia had already figured it out, or known from the beginning, and was tipping the old man off to America's importance, which was why America's trip to Berlin had been enough of note that the USSR himself had relocated to be better connected to the city. However, when would have Russia had the opportunity? America had had the opportunity to search Russia's coat pockets when looking for his sunglasses and had only found lint, no transmitters or radios that could be used in secret.

It couldn't have been while America was in Berlin, because Russia hadn't known where America was going when he left, nor did the time frame allow it, given that the USSR had been in the house before America had arrived. Perhaps the first night, when Russia had broken into America's liquor stash? Perhaps Russia had immediately recognized America but didn't reveal that he knew it, and made the call from America's phone after America had gone to sleep, before drinking all of the whiskey in order for America to not question what Russia had been doing up so late.

But that was flimsy, after all, why hadn't Russia just killed America in the many opportunities he had been given? How was Russia such a good actor, acting so dumb? Why was he even presenting himself as Russian, if this was a set mission? Perhaps Russia was just trying to convince America that his father knew nothing about America's true identity, to keep America placated and ignorant as the USSR slowly closed in.

Dammit! There were too few facts and too much room for speculation, and it only allowed America's paranoia to reach screaming climax after climax. In frustration, he kicked over a trash can, which fell with a clatter. Then, he roared and bruised his fists on the door to his room, before finally opening it, and slamming it behind him. There, he let himself fall face-first onto his bed. He screamed into his pillow.

He didn't want to believe that Russia was a manipulative mastermind out to kill him, but what else could he believe? How did the USSR know who had tried to kill him?

There was a knock at the door.

"Meri?" Russia's sleepy voice called. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's, ah, work-related."

"Oh... Can I help?"

America let out a pained laugh as he rolled over, looking up at the ceiling. "No, not really. But... I really appreciate the offer," he said honestly.

"Alright, I go back to sleep, then."

"Sounds good." America heard the couch creaking soon after.

America paused.

Unless the USSR didn't know who had tried to kill him. What if this was about another matter entirely? It would explain why nothing was adding up. However, what could it mean that the USSR was staying with East Germany? Was it more like America's original theory? Or, perhaps the USSR had specifically wanted to get closer to East, and had specifically sent Russia away on what the man had assumed to be a wild goose chase?

America jumped out of bed and went to the living room. "Hey, what did your father say to you to get you to come here?" he said.

"He didn't," Russia said from where he lay.

"...What?"

"He didn't tell me to come. I went on my own. He doesn't know where I am," came the sleepy mumbles.

And then it all clicked.

The USSR was looking for his son. East was Russia's most common contact, so of course, the USSR would take up residence there: if Russia came back, the man didn't want to miss him. It was affection, in a strange, stalker-y sort of way.

America couldn't imagine his father ever being worried about him. Their relationship had always been best when they were both pretending the other didn't exist. Except recently: in the World War and its sequel, they had fought side by side as equals. America had felt a bit of affection for the man, but it was the same affection he felt for every brother-in-arms. He had been the one more adept in the field because his father's tactics were a little old-fashioned, and so America had been the one to take charge more often. It ruined any chance of Great Britain being a father figure to the United States. America was fine with that.

He went back to bed.

Tomorrow, he would go ask his allies as to whether or not they've seen an increase in Russian activity. Then, he'd know whether the USSR was closing in on Russia's actual location.