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[personal profile] pyrrhiccomedy
Title: Five Six Seven Eight
Originally posted: Here, for the CMC Event at [ profile] russiamerica. Day 6 prompt: gamble.
Length: 1,100 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: America is a fail spy. Also, Russian pistols hold more bullets than you think.
Time period: Cold War sometime after 1969, I guess, since I make a so-veiled-you-might-miss-it reference to the Space Race.
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 4/10
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 3/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 6/10
Would I like it?: It started life as a 600-word drabble-y thing, and then it exploded into a confetti shower of America's retarded inner monologue and him getting shot at a lot. That sound like fun?


America almost screamed when the door opened and a wedge of light from suddenly fell upon him. He jerked up from rummaging through Russia's desk. And then he did scream, as Russia drew his Makarov PM out of his side holster without a word, and opened fire. The first round crashed into the surface of Russia's desk and sprayed splinters against America's glasses.


He heaved a pulled-out drawer full of files between them, and the air was full of paper. He dove for the open window. Russia's gun roared again and tore out a section of window frame. America collided with the fire escape banister, bounded down the stairs four steps at a time, just stopped himself from sprawling flat when his hand skidded across the railing. Clang, clang as two more rounds ricocheted above him. He hurdled off the last flight of stairs and hit the wet pavement at a sprint. A foot to his left, a fifth round slammed a divot out of a brick wall.

Shit, shit, shit…

He figured he had five or six seconds before Russia reached street level, and his thighs burned as he used it to put as much distance between them as he could. This was bad, because over long races America always pulled out ahead, but in short bursts, Russia moved like a fucking cat. America's shoulder bounced off a wall as he swerved, dashed into a side street. The air singed behind him as Russia unloaded another round into the trajectory he'd just escaped.

His heart banged in his chest like a noisy engine. He could hear Russia's shoes striking pavement, and he was narrowing the distance between them. America strained to build up speed again, but he had to keep zigzagging because--


Russia kept--


Firing, fuck!
And he hadn't even kept anything worth looking at in his desk! America was gonna get his ass perforated for a handful of lunch receipts and a novelty day calendar full of kitten pictures!

Man...what a way to go…

They burst into an abandoned dockyard, and America pelted for the maze of crates. He hurdled into cover--no gunshots for a second, thank Christ--and gasped, swallowed hard, tried to quiet his breathing, shut up shut up shut up.

Russia slowed and stopped. America guessed that he didn't want to lose the advantage of a pistol at range against a terrified jackass, in favor of close quarters, where America might conceivably smash him over the head with a bit of loose planking as he came around a corner.

That was a shame.

"America…" Russia's voice was soft, playful. Shit, the son of a bitch wasn't even winded, was he? How could a dude that big shrug off that kind of action? America felt like he'd had matches dropped into his lungs. "Were you spying on me again? …That's against the law, you know…"

Wait--wasn't that eight rounds? Didn't that gun only hold eight rounds?

America stepped out from behind a section of sheet board. "No, Russia, I was just trying to borrow a pen! Why--"

Crack! A hole the size of his fist smashed through the planking. America squealed and scrambled back into cover, but now--

(Right, shit, right, some models held 10 rounds, my bad)

--Russia knew what row he was in, and that smack smack smack of boots across wet pavement was not a good sign for him, and oh FUCK he ducked, and swerved around the heaps of industrial detritus, and then--

Cracked his forehead against a length of broken piping--

Which probably saved his life, because he went down like a sack of lead fillings just in time to see another bullet hole tear open a wooden sign in front of him at the level of his chest, even though he couldn't hear anything for a few seconds. Fuck. Was that one shot or two shots? The heap of trash behind the sign sagged and crumbled forward and covered it, and he couldn't check. He scrambled onto his hands and knees and threw himself over the avalanche, tumbled into a heap on the other side.

Russia had stopped again.

"That was quite a fall, America!"

Fuck you! "You're out of ammo, Russia! Give it up and we'll call this one even!"

Russia was silent.

Okay, if that had been one shot, Russia was out of ammo. If it had been two, that…meant there was a Makarov with a twelve round clip, and Russia had one round left, and that would be bad, because America didn't think he could do a lot more running, not with blood trickling down his forehead and into his eye sockets and giving him what were probably some really gross-looking bloody tears.

America had never heard of a Makarov that would take a twelve round magazine.

But America hadn't heard of a lot of things that apparently existed, like low calorie toothpaste, and Kyrgyzstan.

So…it was a gamble.

He blinked the dizzy out of his brain, then jumped onto the tipped-over heap of slag and rotting tires. He planted his fists on hips, his feet square, trying to look confident and dramatic even though standing up fast kind of made him want to throw up. King of the mountain, bitch. "Come on! Am I wrong? Take your shot, asshole! I'm standin' right here!"

Russia raised his pistol and sighted down the barrel. America's heart sank, which he guessed was pretty smart of it, because repositioning itself might give it a better chance of not getting splashed out of his body like a water balloon from a picnic basket.

And then Russia lowered his gun again, and smiled. "Get out of here, dalbaiyob."

America went weak in the knees. He mustered up a smirk while his internal organs cracked the champagne and threw a party. "Yeah, you know you'd lose a real fight, huh?" Okay, so he might have a concussion, and Russia might outweigh him by forty pounds, but by God he'd take that son of a bitch if it came to a fight, and…

"I don't want to have to wash your blood out of my clothes," Russia responded. "Go. Do not be so stupid again."

America blew out a breath. He didn't nod, because that would be an agreement and he was stupid but he wouldn't have lost the fight, for real, okay…but he turned and hobbled back down the trash pile, and touched the ground at a jog. He wiped blood out of his eyes.

If anybody asked, he walked into a cabinet. A cabinet.


Russia waited until the pat pat pat of America's footfalls faded into the distance, and sighed. Out of ammo, indeed. He discharged his magazine and popped out the last bullet; it shone lustrous and sleek in his hand. He made it dance between his fingers.

"I think I'll keep you," he murmured.

He put it in his pocket and turned back towards home. His gun he returned to its holster. After a minute, he chuckled, and the sound floated up into the misty night.



Yes, there is a Makarov PM that holds a 12-cartridge magazine. However, the 8-round version was the standard sidearm of Soviet government forces from the 1950s until the dissolution of the USSR in 1991.


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