Chapter 3

There was something charming in the way Russia tried to be subtle with holding his hands out to feel around him, unseeing. If America weren't so guilt-ridden over putting him in such a state in the first place, he might have enjoyed the situation. As it was, Russia himself did not seem particularly perturbed…beyond what would be expected, of course. No amount of guilt, however, could quite stifle the tender bout of delight America felt when he clasped Russia's shoulders and felt the distinctive twitch of muscle beneath his grasp.

It awakened America's protective instincts every time Russia hesitated before moving forward, so unsure of how to navigate the world now. Even when Russia was of sound body, America tried to find excuses to fuss on him, attempts that were usually met with a look that could raise the hairs on the back of the most hardened criminals. Every single one of those looks was met with one of America's determined smiles that always turned endearing, and from there turned into barely-suppressed delight when Russia looked away with cheeks a few shades darker and face twisted in confusion.

Now, Russia had no one to direct those offended glares at but himself.

America could see the mounting frustration in Russia's tensing shoulders and balled fists, the scowls and the gritted teeth.

It became a cycle: Russia would take a few hurried steps forward, face set with unwarranted surety. Then the slightest change in the terrain would cause him to jerk to a halt, slowing his steps and reaching his feet out slowly one at a time like one might use a cane.

America breathed a sigh of relief when his car came into view. This whole trek had been like a misbalanced game of tag, and he, America, the chaser, had to make sure his target did not fall and suffer further damage. His fingers skirted over Russia's arms, grazed his shoulders, and America allowed himself to ignore Russia's prideful huff of protest and hold him tighter.

"We're right there," he sighed gratefully, leading Russia to the passenger door.

As Russia climbed in, feeling around with his hands, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I can drive."

A stunned silence hung heavy in the air.

"Kidding." Russia rolled his eyes, grimacing as he finished clambering in.

Disgruntled, stressed and guilt-ridden, America shook his head as he slid into his own seat. "With how you drive, probably wouldn't be too different," he grumbled. "Hey!" Russia's hand blindly groped at his face. America knew what Russia was trying for and moved to duck out of the way-

But too late. Russia's long fingers had already found his ear. Russia pulled. Hard.

"I need to drive!" America crowed. He flailed, pawing roughly at the offending hand's painful grip. Russia held fast.

"Do not be rude to your guest that you blinded and nearly paralyzed."

America's fidgeting died. Russia did not need to see to know a look of pain was twisting America's face as he groaned into the steering wheel, his ear blessedly released.

"I'm sorry!"

"In Russian."

More groaning, accompanied this time by the sound of mild writhing. "Prosti…menya," America ground out. He glanced over in time to see the small, satisfied smile crossing Russia's face and sighed. "Nope. Not doing this." He spoke more to himself than to Russia as he turned on the car, gripped the wheel, and drove them out of the parking lot. "Not doing this. Not letting you make me feel bad 24/7, cause if I'm feeling bad, then I'm not doing my duty."

"Hmmm," Russia hummed idly, elbow resting on the window ledge. "Do you have painkillers?"

"Middle console. You know that."

Russia felt around in the compartment between the two seats. America heard the rattling of pills in a bottle as he stopped at a red light. Russia waved the small white bottle. "These are painkillers, yes? Not your Viagra?"

America sneered. "Dick."

"Yes, I know what it is for." Russia's smile grew when he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, and knew America had slapped his own forehead. Shoulders shaking with mirth, Russia extracted three capsules and dry swallowed them.

"I think that'd be more of an insult to yourself than to me if I needed Viagra, pal," America said dryly as they drove on. "Maybe you're just not as good as you like to think."

"You certainly did not seem to believe that last month."

"Cause I remembered to take my Viagra."

Though his stomach still twisted at the memory of what happened earlier today, America allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Russia looking so openly amused. In this way, part of him, a small, secret part America wanted to deny harboring, America was glad for today's incident. It began to dawn on him, as he spent time stopped at traffic lights casting open glances at Russia, that without Russia able to see him stare, he could gaze comfortably at the infinite spectrum of emotions and nuances and facial idiosyncrasies Russia normally kept in check. That was not to say Russia was not open with him- at least not in moments of reprieve, where even Russia felt comfortable enough to let America past his secure outer walls.

No, but even to this day it was clear there was some measure of control in Russia's behaviors, especially when he knew America was watching. As if out of habit, when knowing he was under observation Russia would act with great deliberation, no matter the action. In some cases, this manifested in something of a game between the two of them. Sometimes in meetings their eyes might lock and Russia, elbow bent atop the table, head resting in his hand, would continue to look at America with eyes of molten lilac energy; the tip of his finger would graze ever so lightly at the corner of his lips. Press just a little. Those same lips would press in a hard line, the corners turn just so. America's head would spin. A gasp spilled, screaming from his lips to reach across the oceanic divide between their seats to kiss against Russia's mouth.

Other times it became a competition of a different sorts, where Russia, in a bout of bemusement and restlessness, would determinedly not meet America's gaze when he saw the fondness his lover wore, or heard the near-cooing America voiced when Russia did something he deemed "adorable." Which, America reasoned, was rich coming from Russia, who was almost always simpering about some inane thing America did- sometimes in a snide way, and sometimes with almost too much tenderness to look directly at.

Knowing the games they played with each other, knowing that though it was decidedly not a most noble sentiment, America allowed himself to enjoy the prolonged looks he could send Russia with such abandon. Though, it was making driving difficult, and more than once a car blared its horn behind him when almost ten seconds had passed since the light turned green and America had yet to move.

"Crazy drivers are out today," Russia said sagely, rolling down the window and offering a rude hand gesture.

"Ahah, yeah. Crazy." The air in the car suddenly felt too warm, and he was grateful for the soft breeze wafting in. Mustering a strength of will he was not aware he possessed, America kept his eyes trained on the road ahead of him, head straight, both glad and remorseful the range of his glasses prevented him from seeing Russia in his peripherals. There were no further incidents, and the sight of his home lifted a great weight from America's shoulders.

"Going somewhere?" he asked dryly as Russia opened his door and stepped out.

Russia stared blankly at the car. "I am just getting out." He said it with the air of someone explaining that one plus one equaled two.

"Uh-huh." America did the same, quickly throwing off his belt and slipping from his seat to Russia's side. "Except you never just do one thing, and I don't think your boss would be thrilled if you fell and cracked your head open in my home."

"My boss will not hear a word of what happened." America was treated to an undisguised look of weariness shadowing Russia's features as he stared off somewhere else. Small creases of worry formed at the corners of his unseeing eyes, and America looked down in time to see a hand ball itself into the long trailing tail of his scarf. America grimaced. Any other time he might have offered a bracing smile, but as that would prove useless to Russia, he would have to rely on his tone alone.

"Well, I'd like to keep being able to hang with you, so he won't hear it from me." His fingers found Russia's free hand, gently clasped it, letting their joined hands sway slightly between them.

Russia's grip tightened. "I know that." Something hardened in his voice, roughened by his own trepidations. It was not just for America's sake that today's events could not be known to their bosses. Russia knew his own boss's expectations of him, and was in a constant, vain, attempt to always meet them.

"Hey. C'mon, you don't need to be ominous for me to get it." America stuck his tongue out, inwardly smirking at Russia's unresponsiveness.

"And yet sometimes you all need some motivation to listen." Russia stared intensely down at him…precisely, his collarbone.

America clasped Russia's chin, adjusting his gaze to be level with America's. "Up here, big guy. Just how short do you think I am?" His fingers shifted up slightly and tightened, squishing Russia's cheeks.

Face twisting, Russia stepped clumsily back, rubbing at his face. "About half the size as that ego of yours." He wheeled round, marching forward, hands outstretched.

America shrieked, bounding forward as Russia headed right for a metal tool shelf. His hands clasped at Russia's sides, shoulders sagging gratefully when Russia did as he hoped and stopped. The sudden pause was accompanied by a twitch through his body and an elbow knocking America's glasses askew.

America paused as once more Russia spun around, and he was treated to one of Russia's more endearing flustered looks, the kind that had a slight sting of impatience to it. It was a dangerous look, and certainly one that caused others a great deal of justifiable worry, but one of America's favorites.

"Try it and die," Russia vowed. "You know how this always ends for you, America."

"Actually." America beamed confidently as he took a moment to appreciate the way Russia's eyes darted around, fighting desperately to see his opponent. Every fiber of his being seemed to be on edge- twitchy, even. "I like my odds this time." In one motion, he swooped forward, hands prodding and tickling mercilessly at Russia's side.

.。.:*・° .。.:*・°

It just isn't a rusame fic by me if there isn't a tickle fight shoe horned in. Promise things will pick up more in future installments! For now, I'm just finishing setting stuff up and just having fun with the guys…and letting them have fun with each other. But there will be serious undertones as well- I know one thing in particular I have planned, and others coming to mind as I go. Enjoy! See you next time!