RUSAME - one shots

𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 (part iii)

!! content warning for gore & some death !! please be mindful of your mental health

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The door at the end of the hallway shuddered under the force of Russia's shoulder— once, twice he ran into it before it sprang open, and he entered with the gun at arm's length.

It was a real actual torture chamber. Hand to heaven. Russia registered dim flashes of weapons, knives, water buckets— black, silver, rust— but stopped short when his darting eyes finally landed on America. Oh gosh, America.

"Khuy khuy khuy," he heard himself breathe as if through water, because America's wrists were above his head, tied to a harness dangling from the ceiling so tight Russia could see the blood gathering there, dark and bloated, and his white chest had been stained as red as Rus's with blood from too many cuts to count. Up his rib cage. Across the sides of his neck like gills. Dizzy, Russia swayed, lowering his gun a fraction of an inch as his eye followed the lazy drag of red down his legs, dripping from his ankles, down the drain in the center of the room. Who knew anyone had that much blood inside them at all.

There was a man across the room, standing at the table of weapons, wearing a gas mask that caught the light, holding a knife that dripped red. Thickset, strong, but decisively caught off guard— apparently they knew the organization well enough not to expect a rescue team. Surprise.

Nu vse, tebe pizda.  "Ya tebya ub'yu."  His throat felt scraped raw.

The metal of the gun was ice-cold on Russia's numb fingers as he cocked it, aimed, and fired in one smooth, trained motion. The sound was explosive in the tiny room. America twitched— ripples cast outwards across the pooling blood— but the man stayed standing, legs idiotically braced like a hog's for impact. Russia swore, fired again— but the realization had already come. The organization had remotely disabled his firearms. Standard procedure when an agent went rogue.

He was going to kill those bastards. But first things first.

Russia dashed for the table of weapons, spread out like a sick holiday feast, plunging into the array to snatch a tiny pistol and a handful of obsessively sharpened knives. When he looked up, though, a strangled noise burst, involuntary, from his throat.

The man had hacked America's harness down from the ceiling, and now held him under the arms, filthy fingernails scrabbling for purchase in all that blood. Slipping into the open wounds. A human shield. Russia lowered the pistol with rage-shaking hands.

"Who are you?!" he thought the man said, accent unplaceable, but all the noise of a waterfall crashed through Russia's ears, blocking everything out.

"Uberi ot nego ruki," he spat in reply, and left a cut across the pad of his thumb when he touched it to the blade of the knife behind his back. This was nothing but an excuse to do it the slow way.

"Put the gun down," the man barked. "You come one step closer, I bash his head against the wall."

"You think I care? You think I am here for him?" The laugh Russia forced out of his chest sounded thin and unnatural. "Have you heard him talk? Do it." The world tilted, sick and teasing, in front of his eyes. Bloody floor. Concrete wall. This bluff banked on the man being 1) an idiot and 2) completely ignorant of the Russian language. Russia drew a clumsy cross on his back with the flat edge of a knife and prayed. "Good riddance. To fight me, though... I would use both hands."

He deliberated. Russia watched it in his hoglike eyes, the slow ping-pong match of making the decision.

He let go. Before America had hit the floor, Russia had thrown a knife between his eyes.

The man stumbled backwards, going cross-eyed, bringing a quizzical hand up to his forehead. That's right, Russia thought savagely, crossing the room in three strides. About time you left some bloodstains here too.

"Coward," he hissed, shoving the man up against the wall. He reeked of sweat and fear. "You f**king coward." He went slack-jawed as Russia pushed another knife into his gut, straight to the hilt, and then with a fistful of his shirt yanked him off balance and to the floor. "When you reach pit of hell, you tell them who sent you."

The crunch as he stomped on the man's collarbone, crushing his windpipe, was sickly satisfying.

"Woah."

Russia whirled to see America sprawled on the floor, somehow conscious, though his eyes were glassy and unfocused and his nose was bleeding hard into his mouth. "Thatwas uhhh... that was kinda hot, Russie."

Okay. He was in shock. Russia could work with that. "He did not deserve to die so easily." His breath still came hard and fast as he knelt by America's body and assessed the wounds. Saints alive, there were so many. Rus locked his hands into fists before he could do anything hasty. "How, ehm— how do you feel?"

America looked up at him. "Not awesome, to be honest."

"Da, yes," Russia mumbled, and careful to avoid the cuts, propped America up against the wall, hesitating before lifting his chin to observe the gashes over his neck. The draining of blood was rapid and severe. He should really not be conscious.

America regarded him with fevered, over-bright eyes.

"You— handle your blood loss better than your alcohol," Russia murmured, rough around the rush of emotion trying to crawl up his throat. America's jaw felt unnaturally warm in his fingertips.

"Oh—" America laughed at that, a sort of breathless wheeze, and then slumped forward, chin falling into Russia's hand. Out cold.

Hoisting him into his arms, Russia found himself muttering a prayer, rapid and feverish. He held him like a little kid, his face mashed into Russia's shoulder, legs around his waist, but most importantly, his slow, solemn heartbeat pressed flush to Rus's own. Right where he could feel it. He clutched the tiny gun in his teeth and began to run for the subway.

The tunnel was darker than he remembered, his boot falls throwing haunted, rumbling echoes back and forth overhead now that he wasn't trying to be subtle. America wasn't heavy— not heavy enough. He couldn't shake the impression that his felt loose, drained, somehow, all that blood soaking into the floor.

"Don't you die on me, little pig. Don't you dare."

The ticket man had stepped out of the shadows and was waiting for him outside the tunnel entrance.

"Intruder," he began, in a low, furious tone, and Russia tore the gun out of his mouth and put a bullet through his forehead without stopping as he ran for the exit.

The city at night was peace incarnate by comparison— dead empty, thank the Lord. Russia stopped short under a street lamp, breathing ragged, and pressed the back of his hand to America's weak, erratic heartbeat. Gosh, where was the nearest hospital?

"Sh!t," Russia spat as he realized the organization would have ears there; he'd bet his life on it. Ready to take them away. Secret agents didn't get to quit their jobs. He'd have to treat these wounds himself. He pressed his palm to the back of America's head as he formulated some weak substitute for a plan.

A long, low motel lay sprawled across the street, two windows lit up as if eyeing him. Untidy, cheap. No one would look here. Not at first.

Russia knew how to buy them some time. Looking both ways down the deserted street, he broke into a run for the front doors.

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a/n: fear not the cliffhanger is Over !!!! depending on how people like this one i have a part 4 plotted.  featuring every hurt/comfort trope my tiny brain can churn out

btw if u saw this when i had it posted for like 10 minutes yesterday No You Didn't i had to edit some stuff sorry bout that