Title: All in a Day

Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia

Rating: T for language from an angry Italian

Summary: Romano finds himself in a bit of a pinch... Until the day is saved by an unlikely hero.

A/N: Oh man I haven't posted anything on here in forever. Please enjoy this older one shot I never published as I ease back on here lol.

All In A Day

An Axis Powers: Hetalia fanfiction

by Triangular Prism

He'd had the entire day planned out.

First, a leisurely morning, waking up in time fix a large brunch all for himself, with no Spain or Italy to gobble it up when his back was turned. Then, picking his car up from the shop, so he could drive into town and do some shopping; there was a suit he'd been eyeing the last few weeks. And finally, returning home for siesta and an evening of general laziness until supper and bedtime, content from a perfect day.

But apparently God had seen it entirely fit to screw around with him in the most cruel manner possible.

Romano cursed for the countless time as he went through this in his head. The room was dark, thanks to the drawn curtains over the window, and he didn't dare turn on a light for fear of attracting unwanted attention. As it was, he'd done nothing but remain huddled in a corner, still in pajamas. He couldn't go downstairs thanks to the large bay windows in the living room, which had not been drawn. He was, in all honestly, trapped like a rat.

Swearing again, the Nation gathered up the courage to army-crawl across the floor. Reaching directly under the window, the drapes were moved in the barest of an inch, letting a crack of sunlight across his face as he peeked stealthily outside. Being situated on the second floor, this particular window had a perfect view of the front yard and drive, allowing him to keep tabs on the situation, but unfortunately the reason behind his concealment was still fucking there.

That being a large, obvious black car, parked plainly in the middle of his driveway like an overlarge, unwanted beetle. Flanking it were two equally apparent men, fully dressed in suits, sunglasses, and expensive hats, smoking cigarettes while a third sat halfway out of the driver's seat, speaking unintelligible Italian to his companions.

Taking everything into account, they were quite noticeably part of the Mafia, no doubt here to coerce Romano into whatever scheme they were cooking up now. And dammit, he didn't want any part of it.

"Shit! Shit, Shit…" Romano muttered, dropping back down into a fetal position under the window, "Go away. Go the fuck away!"

Unfortunately he'd been saying those exact words for the last hour or so, and they hadn't. Probably the only reason the Mafioso hadn't tried to forcibly enter his house was because they had assumed he wasn't home; most of his curtains were drawn, and his car wasn't there. Thank God for that, at least… but it still didn't make being a prisoner in his own house any better. It was clear they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, which left him nothing but to swallow his pride, and send call for help. This required more army crawling to the dresser where his phone sat.

Once in hand, he flipped it open, hitting the speed dial of the best person he knew who could help. Spain still had that giant axe from his conquistador days in the attic, right? He'd be able to chase them off! Spain would save him! Besides, he still owed him for that time he beat up the Mafia itself just to send economic aid.

Filled with hope, he held the device to his ear, heart thumping as it rang.

And rang.

And rang…

"Hola! This is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the representation of Spain! I can't come to the phone right now, and if this is you, Lovi, please don't leave swear words on my answering machine again—"

Later Spain would find his eardrums blown from a very loud, very long wail of SPAIN YOU BASTAAAAAAAAARD in his messages, but that would be later. Now, Romano was scrambling to pick up the phone from where he'd smashed it into the wall in a fit of rage. Luckily it still worked… but he was short of a champion.

Who the hell would help him now?

The country peeked back through the curtains, taking great care to stay flat against the wall. Still there.

He sure as hell wasn't going to call France. The last person he needed to be in debt to was that wine bastard. Switzerland would probably refuse on the basis of neutrality, Netherlands was freaky, and he didn't want to involve Belgium in his problems. Turkey would probably be eager to help… not. And God forbid he call someone like America. Despite the nation's similar experience with mafia, he did not want to deal with his stupid hero complex, and he'd probably just make the situation worse. What exactly did that leave? His useless brother? Yeah, right. Also the last person he wanted getting involved with his Mafia mess.

Romano scrolled through his contacts, brow furrowing. Not one person. Not one country he thought he could count on. His fingers tightened on the fabric of the curtains, yanking them slightly to the side, not that he took much notice of it.

It wasn't until a single name remained highlighted on the screen that left Romano staring, and actually seriously considering for the fraction of a second.

Germany.

Romano shook his head, growling. Oh, hell no. Definitely not the potato bastard. That guy was way too muscle-y. And his stupid brother hung out with him way too much, even more than with his own brother! No, Germany would be the last nation on Earth that he'd call for help.

…Except he really was the last option anyway… Well, shit. Though Romano tried very hard not to consider, he was loath to admit there were possible… plus sides.

The nation was burly. One look and those damn Mafioso might just run screaming. He was scary looking, especially if he used that war-face Romano knew he had. Hadn't he used it to force Romano for free fruit that one time? He was a total thug! Perfect for kicking ass!

…Dammit, not that he was going to call him or anything! Romano banged his forehead against the wall, trying to knock the thought away. In his agitation, the curtain fluttered ever so slightly.

Outside, one of the men glanced up nonchalantly.

Back inside. A thumb was poised over the 'send' button, hovering the barest of an inch… he didn't want to do this. He really didn't. Biting his lip, Romano thought it through, once again running the pros and cons. They were pretty much evenly divided. Unless he wanted to be stuck in the top floor of his house for the next few days, he needed someone to help. He could always dangle his brother over the German's head anyhow. Make it sound like he was owed a favor, instead of begging the macho man for one.

The country swore. Then he dialed. The ring tone filled his ear.

Meanwhile, the two other men had joined the first in staring. Almost waiting for something.

"Deutschland speaking."

The phone was answered on the second ring, and in his shock Romano could only stare. Somehow he hadn't expected the country to actually pick up.

"…Hallo? Is anybody there?"

Quickly he shook himself out of it, and proceeded to do what he did best.

"D-Dammit, you potato bastard! Make yourself useful for once and get your ass over here!" he blurted out, the first thing that popped into his head.

"What the… Romano?" At once the atmosphere over the phone changed. Romano could almost feel the annoyance coming through the speakers.

"Th-That's right! Don't think this actually means anything, it's not like I wanted to call you, but I didn't have a choice, dammit!" the nation blustered, inching forward to look again through the windows… and feeling his heart plummet downwards at the sight of all three Mafioso looking straight at him. He dropped back, mouth dry— There must be a bird or something. Yeah, that was it.

"Look…" There was a very heavy sigh. "I am very busy, and have much work to do today. I don't have time to listen to you insult me. Italy isn't here, either, so whoever misinformed you—"

"I don't care about fratello right now!"

Romano had taken to pacing back and forth, paranoia rising. The Mafioso outside were gesturing, pointing at his window. It was giving him a very, very bad feeling, as well as the sinking suspicious that his time was running out.

Germany had paused.

"Is everything all right? You sound… stressed."

"Stressed? You have no fucking clue," Romano muttered. Cautiously, one last time, he edged to the window. Just another peek… To prove they weren't looking at his window anyway…

The moment the view came he knew it was a bad idea. All three of the Mafioso straightened, or in the case of the driver, jumped to their feet, gesturing directly towards his window. Romano jumped violently back as all three began to move towards his front door.

"SHIT!" he screeched, heedless of the phone, "Shitshitshitshit-"

"Romano? What's going on?" Germany spoke up sharply. Romano's fingers trembled. Sweaty palms were making it hard to grip the phone, forcing him to hold it in both hands.

"L-Look, you bastard, it's not every day I'm calling you like this, okay?" he babbled, words rushing in a jumble. At the same time the nation dropped to his knees, scrabbling for a brown box shoved under the foot of his bed. He took several gulps of air. "I-I don't have a lot of time, they're in the yard."

"What? Who's in the yard?"

"Th-Th-Them! Th-They're trying to—" Right on cue, a series of heavy pounding came drifting from the first floor. Romano swallowed thickly. The brown box met his grasping fingers, and he yanked into light, flipping off the top for the handgun laying on a bed of tissue, dull and unassuming. Balancing the phone on his shoulder Romano set to checking it over, loading the magazine and flicking off the safety. If he was under siege, then by God he would go down fighting.

"What the- was that a gun?" Germany was starting to sound quite alarmed right now, something he noted even as he crept to the bedroom door, crouching on the threshold. His hand shook. He really, really did not want to fight, especially since the Mafioso probably had their own guns, and knives and possibly chloroform to go with it. He hated every encounter with the controlling mob. He hated fighting with his own people. And he especially hated having no choice in the matter.

Germany was asking more questions, but honestly he hadn't been paying enough attention to catch them. That, and all words he had planned on using were gone; leaving him tongue-tied. What the hell was he doing? Germany wouldn't help him. Like the uptight nation would drop everything and run to his aid.

"Look, just hang up already. Forget the whole thing," Romano grumbled, cutting the other off mid-sentence.

"What are you talking about?" Germany was starting to sound like a broken record now, with all his what's and whatnot. "I will not hang up until you explain what is going on!" Typical German. Spouting orders like he required it.

"I don't know why I called you in the first place." The Italian pinched the bridge of his nose. The thuds at the door were louder now. With a frightening crunching sound joining in. "Sh-Shit…"

"Romano." The tone from the other end of the phone was suddenly stiff. Commanding. "Obviously you called for a reason. Therefore you will calm down, right now, and tell me exactly what is going on!"

It might have been the genuine desire to know in the nation's voice. Or, it might have been the final-sounding crash of a door forced off its hinges that finally prompted Romano to speak.

"I-I need some help, you bastard!" he yelled into the phone, clutching the gun in his hands as voices filtered into his house, his house, in low commands to search.

There was a short silence. Then…

"I'll be there in three minutes."

And he hung up.

Romano sat in shock for a full half of one of those minutes, staring incredulously at the phone in disbelief— no explanation? No dismissal? Nothing at all?— when the clear shout brought him abruptly back.

"Oi! Romanooo!"

One of the Mafioso downstairs. Romano threw the now-useless phone aside, straining his ears for the tell-tale sign of creaks on the staircase.

"G-Go away, jackasses!" he opted to shout insults instead, and there was muffled laughter.

"C'mon, don't be like that. We're just here to pick you up, y'know? The boss only wants a little chat! A… proposal of sorts."

"Yeah? Well you can take your proposal and shove it, because I'm not coming with you!" Hopefully they wouldn't hear the quiver in his voice. No matter his bluffs, more often than not the Mafia had their way with the southern half of Italy, and both sides knew it. The speaker, clearly the leader, was laughing again, since even he knew it.

"Aw, Romano, don't be like that. We only—"

He stopped. Romano blinked, in the middle of creeping catlike through the upper hallway. The guy had seemed on a roll, so what…

The answer came in a loud, earsplitting crash, a harsh yell in a language that was not Italian, and a subsequent scream of pain.

For the next few minutes Romano remained frozen, listening in horror to what sounded like an all-out brawl, downstairs in his living room. The Mafioso dissolved into shouts, and then cries, followed by chaos. Heavy objects were hitting the ground. A crunching noise, like shattering plaster made him wince. His heart almost stopped when one solitary gunshot went off, but as the battle didn't seem to stop, he (frantically) assumed no one had been injured and went right back to listening.

A single high pitched scream split the air, lasting uncomfortably long until petered out into a dead silence. Romano held his breath; He still held the gun in his hands, finger on the trigger in case a Mafioso came bursting up the stairs, but instead, a new voice eventually called. Pne that was not the invader from before.

"Romano? Can you hear me?"

It was Germany.

Romano's heart definitely did not skip a beat. And he definitely didn't jump to his feet and sprint down the stairs because he was worried or anything. Even rushing blindly like he was, however, didn't stop him from coming to a screeching halt in absolute horror upon reaching the main room.

Every piece of furniture had been knocked aside in one way or another. There was a head-sized hole in the wall, his front door was hanging by the mercy of a single splinter, and he almost cried on seeing the smashed remains of an old, antique mirror he'd had for a few centuries at least. Topping it all off, in the middle of all the destruction, was Germany. His hair was mussed, his clothes were rumpled and slightly torn, and Romano's eyes were drawn to a member of the Mafioso trio; trapped in a massive headlock, dangling limply in the larger man's grasp.

He promptly dropped the Mafioso the moment Romano came into view, a limp body dropping with a heavy thump.

"Romano!" Quicker than he would have thought, Germany had moved swiftly across the room (and over the comatose bodies of the two other victims) to grasp the Italian firmly by the shoulders.

"Are you injured? Did they hurt you in any way?" he barked, and when Romano didn't speak Germany began to check himself, briskly going over his figure for any sign of blood, bruising, or other trauma. That brought a reaction; Romano smacked his hand away, backing up for room to breathe.

"You destroyed my living room!" he accused. Germany blinked.

"Er. Yes, I suppose we did…"

"I heard a damn gun go off!"

"That was them. Don't worry, it didn't hit anything vital." To Romano's great shock a line of red was oozing through a tear in the Nation's sleeve.

"H-Holy Shit! You're bleeding, dumb-ass!"

"It's only a flesh wound—" Germany attempted to say, but Romano had already panicked and begun dragging him towards the kitchen.

"Just... wait there!" Romano wet a dishcloth in the sink and slapped it across the Nation's arm. Then he shoved him onto one of the stools he kept at the counter. All the while his hands had trembled and his eyes had stung and he really hoped Germany hadn't noticed as he ransacked a cupboard for his first aid kit. Why the hell had he gone and gotten himself hurt?

Germany sat awkwardly on his stool, at a loss of what to say. He hadn't expected the fuss. As Romano bustled over with a wheel of gauze and a pair of scissors, set to start dressing his wound, he cleared his throat to speak, thought better of it, and lapsed into silence. The scissors snipped at his sleeve, cutting away the ruined fabric, and Romano muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"...Did you say something?" Germany ventured, and Romano swore, loudly.

"...I said... Ugh. Why the hell did you come?" the Italian Nation grumbled fiercely, so quickly that Germany almost didn't understand again. His cheeks were flaming as he kept his eyes firmly focused on wrapping the gauze, but he was surprisingly gentle, the tremor temporarily banished. the German man blinked.

"You asked me for help, didn't you?" he said, confused. Now it was Romano's turn to look confused.

"I mean, I did kinda ask for a hand, but... why'd you come?"

More confusion. Romano, still flushing furiously, trained his eyes downwards, kicking himself for starting the whole thing and trying to keep his hands from trembling again, and holy shit Germany had gotten himself shot...

"Why would you think I wouldn't come?" Germany asked out the blue. Quietly. The southern Italian nation froze, bandages still in his hands.

"Why? But... I..." he mumbled, a scarlet flame creeping into his cheeks, "I mean... you hate me. I hate you. It's not like you owe me anything, I just... needed someone, but... I guess I... never thought you would... care."

He was surprised by the large hand that suddenly grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look up into Germany's stormy face. The nation was staring at him with a deep frown, blue eyes fixed steadfastly onto his own.

"Italy Romano," he stated flatly, "Let it be said now that I have never, and I repeat, never hated you in all the years I have known you."

Romano almost dropped the gauze in his hands from shock. As it was his hands suddenly were shaking again as he began to tie a clumsy knot, his eyes were widening, and now he was really looking at his unexpected savior.

"You... uh, don't?" he said, the barest above a whisper. Germany shook his head slightly, keeping his gaze steady.

"No. While it is true you are annoying, loud, disruptive at the most inopportune moments, and lazy when you should be working..."

The blond nation winced from a vicious tug at his bandaging.

"... Not once have I considered it reason enough to hate you."

The nation sigh, as Romano stared mutely downwards. His handiwork was finished, and he stepped back to let Germany test the arm and the wrapping, flexing experimentally before nodding. A small smile suddenly chased across his face.

"There. See? You certainly aren't useless; you just need to focus at times, that's all. Frankly, if you're so worried I never will help you, have you ever thought that I might worry why you never ask me for aid?"

Romano had never thought of it that way. From the way the potato bastard always seemed to prefer his brother, the lack of attention he received, the general consensus he was only secondary to his northern half...

...He'd always just assumed...

"So... you... don't hate me?" Italy Romano said in a very, very small voice, and Germany rolled his eyes. Stepping down from the stool he'd been forced on, he cleared his throat, awkwardly crossing his arms across his chest as he spoke;

"A long time ago I made a promise to your brother," he said, tone of voice remarkably gentle considering his usual reputation, "I'm not sure why it never occurred to me to extend it to you, but I'll say it now. If you are ever in trouble, and are in need of assistance... do not hesitate to call me. In return I will expect you to help me if I ever need it. Though like your brother, I don't really expect much..." The last part was a mumble, but with that said, Germany extended a hand, offering it to the southern Italian man to shake.

Romano stared at the offered hand, then back up, then back down, then up...

"Seriously?" he choked, eyes blurring alarmingly. Germany was alarmed, not expecting him to be this emotional, and made as if to pull the hand away when...

"Are you seriously doubting my ability to help, you goddamn potato bastard?" Romano snarled, and grabbed Germany's hand in his own, pumping it furiously up and down. "Are you saying I'm not able to help? You know what, screw you you... you... idiota! I'll bail your ass out at the moment I'm able, because that means I'll get to gloat! Haha, that's right stupid, how do you feel about that? I'll help you out and never let you forget it until your dying day, you damn asshole! I can't wait for that day to come—"

"Right then." Germany yanked his hand away, the familiar scowl flickering back into place. Already a vein was pulsing in his forehead, a sure sign of a coming headache. "Just get your things, and calm down," he ordered irritably as the nation continued to babble away, switching back and forth between angry Italian.

"What? Why?"

"I'm taking you to Veneciano's. I don't want you here while those men still are. They might try again."

"I'll tell you right now, if they did they'd get a shitstorm headed right at 'em! You think I haven't dealt with these guys before? Sure, maybe I haven't beaten them or anything yet, but I would've gotten those guys even you hadn't come, I mean, I really only accidently speed-dialed you or something, like I'd intentionally call you..."

On and on it went, Romano's voice floating through the house in rapid succession as Germany fought back a headache and ended up collecting Romano's things on his own. It seemed nothing had changed.

Undeniable, however, was the new bounce in Italy Romano's step, or the broad, genuinely happy smile stretching from ear to ear across his face as the two nations left, together, side by side.

finite.

.

.

.

.

.

(A/N): Behold, my (sort of) return to the the Hetalia archive! Man, it's been, um, a long time. I thought I'd share this one shot I wrote a looong time ago, and let's see if I can get anything else up. Probably I should work on finishing OGGMO once and for all, huh!?

Hope you enjoyed! I have no idea what's happening in the Hetalia fandom these days, I have some catching up to do.