The Pros and Cons of Following Orders

"Sorry I am late." Russia limped through the door to the conference room, clothes in tatters and dripping blood onto the floor.

England opened his mouth to say something- all concerns of tardiness gone in light of this recent development- but France cut across with a whisper of "This is Russia, it's normal."

A hand was pressed over his abdomen as Russia pulled out a chair. As he made to sit, however, his face twisted in discomfort. A few more attempts to sit yielded similar results, until at last he acquiesced to leaning on the back of his seat, looking as though he had been put through a meat grinder.

"Something…happen…?" America began uncertainly.

Russia shrugged, wincing with the effort. "My boss asked me to stop a tank with my body."

A stunned silence greeted his words, most nations, for all their centuries of experience, quite unsure how to respond. In the end, America asked hesitantly "You nailed it?"

Russia nodded, looking proud though wane. His face, pale naturally, was chalk white beneath the blood and grime. "Da, as you say, nailed it. Now I have his approval for at least a week."

Germany was gracious enough to try and move them along from this rather sordid line of conversation, muscling through the obvious distraction that was the ruin of Russia's body and continuing on with his speech remarkably seamlessly. Every cringe from Russia sent a jab of pity welling up in America's gut until at last he couldn't stand to see him work line that. "I'll copy my notes and give 'em to you. Just chill."

Russia cast him a hesitant look.

"I'll take good notes this time, I promise!" America assured, putting on a bracing smile.

Russia gave another tentative look, then placed his pen delicately on the table. The handle was stained red. "Very well," he whispered. "I shall take notes for you next meeting and we shall be even."

"You don't have to."

"Nyet, I shall. Is only fair."

America shrugged. Even that short conversation seemed to be taking a toll. Russia kept shifting from foot to foot, trying and failing to find a comfortable way to stand, all the while somehow growing paler and paler, drawing more attention to the horrific stains of red across his figure.

"What happened, man?" America muttered from the corner of his mouth, gesturing with his pen at the carnage. Remembering his promise, he quickly scribbled down what Germany had just said.

"Oh," Russia said, casting a surprised look down at himself, as though just realizing how bloodied up he was. "Shattered him, broken ribs, I think my shoulder has been dislocated, some lacerations-"

"Some?" America burst out, only to be immediately shushed by his fellow nations. "I mean," he began again, quieter, "some?"

"Da," Russia breathed through a hiss of pain, clutching at his chest.

Break could not come fast enough. No sooner had Germany dismissed them all for lunch than America swooped over to Russia and began ushering him toward the bathroom. "Should get some of those cleaned up, dude," he said.

"Da, that might feel better," Russia admitted, hobbling forward.

"Alfred, after you two are done, shall we grab some lunch?" England called from beside France. Instinctively America turned, and in that fraction of a second there came a rustle of clothes and limbs, and Russia collapsed into a dead heap of torn fabric and blood onto the floor.

"Ooooh shhhhh…shoot," America corrected himself, noticing Lichtenstein was present. Russia was not stirring. A crowd was already forming around them as America knelt beside the fallen man, gently shaking his shoulder, mindful of all the bruising and battering. "Russia? Hey, Russia? Ivan, wake up!" As he gently tapped his face, his fingers brushed against his neck, and he grimaced as a thought crossed his mind…he pressed his fingers against his throat…

"I…don't think there's a pulse," he said sluggishly, willing some sign of life into existence, certain that the next second he would feel that soft pattering against his hand. It did not come.

"Bloody hell," England murmured, crouching down beside America. "Should we just bring him back to his hotel? Is someone going to tell his boss?"

America grimaced and shook his head. "I…don't think we should. He wouldn't want them to know, trust me."

Germany clearly did not agree with this choice, but made no comment other than to say "Alright, France, you and America get him back to his room."

"This outfit is new," France protested. "England should do it, he is not wearing anything that shall be mourned if ruined."

England gave a squawk of protest, but America was hardly listening as he draped one of Russia's arms over his shoulders- he suspected the other one was broken. "I'll take care of it. Germany, I might be a bit late back."

Germany waved a dismissive hand. "You already presented, so if you can get the notes from someone else, you don't really need to come back."

"Thanks, man."

The walk back to the car was an awkward one, not only due to the cumbersome weight he was bearing and the circumstances behind it, but also due to the need for discretion. Fortunately his car was in the parking garage right near the door. America still went slowly and cautiously, because he really did not need any humans seeing and getting the authorities involved. That had already been messy.

When Russia was safely secured, America set out, trying to avoid any bumps or sharp turns for fear of provoking further damage. The trek back into the hotel and to their room was another hurdle he needed to utilize his best sneaking skills for. Figuring he would just pay for the sheets as compensation, he gently eased Russia down onto the bed. The ticking of a nearby wall clock echoed through the room as though being played through a loud speaker. Perhaps it was due to being in the presence of the (temporary) dead and the gravity of the situation, or perhaps it was because of the lack of conversation or movement, but this silence seemed more pressing than any other. Mechanically, America set to work peeling off Russia's tattered and bloodstained coat, tossing it aside to deal with later. The mess was even greater on this layer. His shirt, once a soft baby blue, was deepest crimson. His black pants disguised most of the gruesome details, but the slick wet shine coming from them betrayed what had happened. America sighed mournfully. Was this really something to do out of boredom? Because surely it couldn't just be as Russia had said, an assignment to earn their approval. With another deep breath, America leaned down to begin unbuttoning his shirt. A short grunt stopped him.

"What happened?" Russia murmured sleepily, blinking bloodstained violet eyes up at him.

America lowered his hands to Russia's, holding them delicately. "I thought you were dead?"

Russia blinked once more, moving his body experimentally and grimacing. "I think I was…Bozhe moi, I feel like I was run over."

"As per your boss's order," America could not help but say.

Russia's gaze shot back to America. "Da, and I did it!" he said with renewed, albeit pained, vigor, giving him a thumbs up; said appendage was bent at an odd angle, no doubt broken as well.

America shook his head and rolled his eyes. "As soon as you're better we're going on a vacation, dude. And you don't have to stop a moving tank at any point on it."

"That sounds lovely, dorogoy," Russia said with a tired smile. "Are you going to look after me?"

"That's the plan."

Russia pointed to a bruise at the corner of his mouth. "Could you kiss this better, then?" he said with mischief in those violet pools. America left out a bark of laughter before complying, soon moving so his lips covered Russia's. They broke apart breathless and grinning stupidly at one another.

"Don't you worry, Ruskie. Dr. Jones will make you as good as new in no time."

"My hero," Russia said silkily.