A/N: I still hope you know that I don't write these stories. This story can be found on Fanfiction.net

If America had any apprehensions about knocking on the stately mahogany of England's door, she showed no such reservations as he came barreling into Russia's home. Although, from the way Ivan's smile broadened, perhaps he should have.

"Ah, Russia, exactly the man I wanted to see," America said with a too-broad smile, throwing himself onto a seat and fidgeting with uncontained energy.

"Unfortunately, the same could not be said of you, Да?" Russia returned, an equally pleasant smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, da, whatever," America dismissed with a wave of his hand, effectively ignoring Russia's aura of impending doom. "I figure since we were mortal enemies, you'd be best able to help me."

"Is that so? Well, then, in what manner would you like to be dispatched?"

"Why would I wanna leave? I just got here!"

Was one hipflask enough? Russia was beginning to fear he didn't have enough vodka for this particular visit. "Did you not just imply that you wished me to aid in your assisted suicide?"

America looked horrified. "When did I say that? All I said was that I needed your help with England."

He definitely needed more vodka. "...I see. And what kind of help would you need in regard to England? The two of you have a special relationship, Да?"

Russia turned away to look for any spare vodka bottles nearby. Had he been looking at Alfred, he would've noticed the dark pout briefly settle onto his features before zipping away just as quickly. As it was, Ivan was too busy rummaging around the cushions of his couch wondering if a bottle could've fallen between them, to notice.

America heaved a sigh. "Yeah, unfortunately it's only a special relationship, and not a special relationship."

"Ah." Russia was dejected. There didn't seem to be any alcohol lurking in his couch. Unfortunately, America seemed to take that syllable as empathetic agreement.

"I know!" America burst out, straightening up from his slouch. "Why is England so fucking shy?! I've given him almost a week to get used to it!"

Russia reluctantly gave up his vodka-quest. It seemed he would have to deal with the superpower without the shield of intoxication. Instead he sat and watched as the other ranted and America's mask of guileless good-nature slowly crumbled, replaced with dark possessiveness.

"And I've been trying to get Arthur to get over his stuffy Victorian shit, but he still seems to be in denial! Like his pansy-assed excuses will stop me from taking what I want."

Russia giggled. "Maybe those 'pansy-assed excuses' are stopping you. If you are not man enough to take what you want, maybe I will instead."

Alfred's eyes turned to ice. "Maybe you need to be reminded of what a good and willing lay Lithuania was."

The atmosphere around the sitting room dropped several degrees, but Russia and America didn't notice. They smiled at each other with razor-edged cordial smiles and cold eyes, faux gestures reminiscent of their games during the Cold War.

"Well," Russia began delicately, "Torris has hardly returned to you, Да? Perhaps there are...certain insufficiencies that make you undesirable?"

That innocent smile didn't sit right on Russia's face. America's fists just itched to wipe it off. "Oh, and you're not lacking? Seems your house is a little empty, if you get my drift."

It seemed Russia did 'get his drift'. Quick as a flash, Russia was up and moving. America got a pipe to his face.

He fell out of his chair from the force of impact, Russia following close behind, pinning him to the ground with his larger bulk.

"I do not think it is sporting to insult a man in his own home," Ivan calmly explained to a dazed America, "especially when asking for advice." He was met with a glare, still unfocused, but more than enough to warrant more precautionary measures.

Russia shoved the pipe into Alfred's throat, effectively blocking the others flow of oxygen. Alfred began to struggle.

Russia began, "Now, we are going to have a nice chat about..." but was cut off by a knee to the groin. His grip on the pipe slackened in shock and pain, and that was more than enough of an opening for America to overpower the stockier country.

Their roles were now reversed, Russia on his back in pain, America's knee putting an uncomfortable amount of weight on his sternum and his precious scarf being used to bind his wrists together. Russia struggled, trying to reach for his faucet that had been knocked a few feet away. It earned him a knee to the stomach for his troubles.

"Where were we?" America asked brightly, the tone of his voice eerily matching the psychotic grin on his face. "Oh, yes!" And the psychotic grin reached manic proportions. A large hand fisted itself into Russia's hair and suddenly his head was being lifted off the ground.

"England." America slammed the back of Russia's head into the hardwood floor.

"Is." Russia had no time to recover before his head met the floor again.

"Mine." America growled out the last word, fiercely possessive, and relished in the sharp crack Ivan's skull made as it impacted with the wood. A red puddle began to fan out around Russia's head like a bloody halo.

Alfred snorted at the analogy. God, England was making him such a softie.