The War That I Began- RussiaXReader- Chapter 30

The mission was easy enough, you supposed. I mean, you had been training your hardest the past two weeks or so—for the first week, your entire body was so sore you were bedridden, and Ukraine curled up next to you and you two had what she called a 'Princess Power Marathon' which was basically a bunch of American Disney movies she knew you would like and rented them in English for you.

Then, Poland had poked his blonde head into the room and seen what was going on—he made it a point to change into his fluffy pink pajamas and sit at the edge of the bed and watch them with you two. Later, Latvia wondered in—you knew that Russia wanted him to be working, but had let him stay because you also knew damn well that the poor boy basically got no time to just… sit and not have to stress.

Basically, by the end of the day all of the Baltics had joined, along with Belarus, who sat in the back corner of the room commenting on how you would look like a princess you looked nothing like… then snickering to herself every time something horrible happened to said princess.

Funny thing is, you had begun to grow fond of them all. Well, maybe not Belarus.

Because, you know… She wanted your head on a stake to put in the front lawn.

Everyone but Russia joined, who had been at his prison/headquarters planning your trip. Well, he called it a trip—but you wanted it to be a mission. Like, a spy mission.

Oh yeah—you were James Bond material, for all he knew!

"Would you like me to get your bags?" The boyish, polite voice from the bellhop interrupted your train of thought, snapping you to the present. "Service is on the house."

Well, you certainly hoped the service was on the house—this was one of the most well recommended, wealthy hotels in all of America. Seems like it's only right.

You smiled and tilted your head slightly, flashing your best winning smile. "Oh, yes, thank you."

The boy, who couldn't be more than eighteen by the look of his face, graciously took the handles of both of your large suitcases and started to walk ahead of you, giving you your own sort of personal bubble like space as the pair of you clicked your way across the large marble lobby. "So, you from around here Miss?"

"Hm?" You smiled again—false, irritated, perfectly real looking. "Oh, yes, I was raised in Texas." That was a partial lie. You were born in Texas—but you moved to upper Minnesota to go to your old private school your Freshman year, so it didn't really count. And, of course, you were here as a spy.

But it's best he didn't know that.

As the boy continued to blabber on, which you found most American's do and you just had failed to realize it before, you ran over the instructions Russia had drilled into you yesterday morning before you got on the plane with your fake information to go to Canada, and then drive to America from there because no-one payed attention to what was going on at the Canadian border.

You where to go to the large, yearly gathering of countries which had been dubbed the CGE; otherwise known as the Country Gathering Extravaganza.

If you couldn't guess, America named it.

Since the war had begun, it was unclear who all was going to show up this year—since it was being held in America's country, obviously Russia wanted no part, and some others refused to come in fear that Russia WOULD show up, and take them prisoner and beat them into piles of bloody goo on the floor.

By coincidence, America's guest list had disappeared while one of his new 'maids' was cleaning his office in the Whitehouse. So, when they found it again in the pocket to one of his dirty pants in the hamper at his house, it might have had some names added to the list by Russia himself—not that America noticed.

So, all she needed to do was get into this party, and somehow win the trust of some of America's allies—even him, if possible.

Revenge would be so sweet.

"Alrighty Ma'am—you said that your room was Master Suite 004?" The boy turned his grin back at you and you brushed past him into the room with a friendly pat on the shoulder. He sat there for a moment, a little stunned, before continuing to slowly pull the bags into your suite.

"You've been an absolute peach." The grin that winded up your lips was sincere and warm—he truly was a help, even if he talked too much and wore too much cologne.

"Uh-huh. 'Course, Ma'am." He nodded and mirrored the look, before turning and leaving you with your large, empty room.

It was true—this was the farthest, and first time you had been away from Russia's home in what must be about a year now.

But that was home now. This was…

This was a thing of the past. It held no color, or flavor—everything here in America just seemed so… artificial now. All of the colors where painted and neon and empty and too bright.

You realized as you moved slowly over to the window and then threw open the bright orange curtains to gaze out over the crowded, angry street of traffic below that whatever America might have been able to spark in you long ago could now no longer hold a candle to the forever glittering, silver and white landscape of Russia, specks of gold standing out as it was thrown from the light of the sun and off of the snow.

Of course, you were only talking about landscapes, right?

You…. You think so…

Trying to distract yourself from your own thoughts and whatever else lurked in the shadows of your subconscious, you turned briskly to look at the digital clock on the other side of the bedroom, next to the large king sized bed—in all honesty, it looked too big. You yearned for the warm retreat of Russia's queen sized bed, and for the giant space heater of a country that was him.

Rarely, did he sleep under the covers—you wondered why; it wasn't that he wasn't cold. You would wake up and he would have gotten himself another blanket, or was shivering in whatever light sleep he had managed to fall into.

Lithuania, who occasionally you will wake up to him stealthily picking up a few empty vodka bottles from Russia's floor before the man woke up and slaughtered him for being in his room, had witnessed him sleeping above the covers, a single arm wrapped over you in some kind of bear hug.

Lithuania, when you brought it up, said it was because Russia wanted to keep you pure. You thought that might be it at first, but you don't think so anymore.

After deep thought on the subject, you wondered if it was just for your personal boundaries, and Russia was afraid that he would be going too far by sleeping next to you under the covers, even if he never did seem to get undressed past taking off his jacket and gloves—on some very rare nights you would tiptoe down the hall to his door and whisper the password on his door to unlock it in case Belarus was listening around the corner.

When the door would pop open, Russia would be sound asleep in his bed, his large jacket off and his bare hands tucked away under his pillow—those nights, you would pull his boots off for him and set them carefully at the foot of the bed.

When he was asleep, he looked younger—not that his childish face wasn't sweet looking as it was—but this was different. There was no malice in his features, no tension, when he was asleep.

Although, on those nights, the next morning you would wake up and he would be sitting there. You would pretend to be asleep, eyes never opening, but you knew he was staring. And on those mornings after he left you always found yourself trying to figure out what you had said in your sleep that made him stare at you so intently, so stiff and still and precise, those intense violet eyes never faltering.

You founds that while lost in your own thoughts, you had sort of wandered across the room to the bed, running your fingers across the dark gray walls, the color of angry storm clouds just before the lightning strikes.

It was four hours until dark, which was when you would emerge from your room under the name Jennifer Johnson. It was incredibly stereotypical, completely American, and gave you the impression of someone who doesn't know how to spell 'knife' because of the silent 'k'.

But, to fool an American such as Alfred, it was perfect.