RUSAME - one shots

𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 (part v)

!! ANNOUNCEMENT !! As there is still a lot left to this story, I will be moving it to its own book and you can find new updates there from now on.  The parts in here already will remain.  Thanks & enjoy !!

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"I didn't tell them anything."

America'd been mumbling this into Russia's shirt for fifteen minutes before it became clear enough to understand, and then his chest ached, and against his better judgement he struck a match against his thumbnail and lit a cigarette.

"I didn't tell them anything." The tormentors, obviously, would have grilled America every way they knew how about the agent organization— locations and dates and mission objectives, a hundred meaningless things. And given Ame's trembling fists in his shirt, his muscles tensing and releasing, he'd resisted— but it had almost killed him.

"I didn't tell 'em," he said, louder this time, and shook his head, digging it into Russia's chest like he wanted to hide inside it. Rus spread a steadying hand over the back of his head, fingers carding roughly through his hair, and made some inane shushing sound, for all the good it did. He was never good at this kind of thing. Seeing America defeated like this filled the back of his throat with some wild, rushing feeling he couldn't name. Russia wasn't a comforter. He'd be a lot better at charging back up that subway tunnel and blowing the place to shrapnel.

America gasped, the force of it wracking him upright, and his eyes flew open, bloodshot and so enormous Rus hardly noticed his fingernails leaving marks across his collarbone as Ame gripped his shoulders to steady himself.

"I did not tell them anything," he said again, gaze flicking frantically between both Russia's eyes. Russia ground the cigarette to dust in the ashtray, swallowing hard.

"I know you didn't." And his hands were on Ame's shoulders too, thumbing of the ridge of his taut shoulderblades. How had that happened? For just a second, America's nails dug harder, the pain bright and shining, before he leaned back, regaining his balance, and Rus's hands slid back to his lap. The sudden distance between them was palpable, strange after so long. Russia felt sort of— cold, diminished, and crossed his arms high over his chest.

"Oh my gosh," America was mumbling, feverish gaze darting unseeing around the motel room. "Oh my gosh." He skated a clumsy palm down the bandages over his chest— they were tight, though. They held— and for a few seconds a nauseous pallor rose over his face that made Russia pretty sure he was going to puke, but he swallowed it down, and instead looked back at him. "What happened?" Russia's brows drew together as he considered how the hell to answer a question like that, but America kept going before he came to any conclusion. "They got me, didn't they?"

Rus nodded.

"The file?"

Saints alive, the file? He'd deposited it haphazardly in a safe box, actually, what felt like months ago. The surreality of Ame saying a thing like that, wrapped in dirty bedsheets instead of gauze and on the run from an omniscient spy network, set his head spinning. It was a piece of paper.

"It... is safe." But he couldn't help it, lip curling in indignation. "You almost died, America. Why do you ask?" Rus hadn't spent an hour bandaging his stupid wounds to save his stupid life for him to ask about the file.

"Cause— I dunno," he answered, and Russia bit his tongue at the look of mild distress on his face. "My job. Your job." He stopped short, and Rus watched in real time as his reasoning process fought through the haze of lingering pain and alcohol for clarity. "You... came back for me."

Russia felt the scowl twist his features involuntarily, shoulders tightening, and jerked his head to face the blinds. The slit left by the broken one in the middle revealed a sliver of slowly paling sky.