A/N: Let it be known that I am a HUGE slut for Amerus/Rusame/Team Rocket/Space Gay/other clever ship names

Even if they aren't really being "shippy", I love them

"Privyet, Amerika."

"Oh, 'sup Russia."

"Nyet, it is Union of Soviet Socialist Repub-."

"Yeah, yeah, and it's the United States of America, but you don't see me gripin'." America retorted before turning back towards the direction he'd originally been heading. "So, you've managed to make time for this meeting, huh?"

"Last I was here, you were not a part of these meetings, so please do not make me sound dis-valuable." Russia warned, matching America's brisk pace.

"Not tryin' to bub. Just sayin' you've been stuck on the Eastern Front awhile."

"Da, two front warfare is very…time consuming."

"Two front? Ah yeah, you're helpin' China with Japan aren't you?" Suddenly America stopped dead in his tracks and struck what could only be described as a heroic pose, all wink and a smile as he waited for the Russian's attention to be fully on him. "Well, don't worry. I'm here to help with that!"

"You weren't remotely interested four months ago. Why sudden offer?" Russia asked, his eyes narrowed with –warranted- suspicion.

"Oh," America seemed to deflate a bit at his words and harsh stare. He rubbed the back on his neck in a manner Russia could almost label as embarrassed. "Guess you haven't heard. I joined the Allies. You're welcome!" He finished with a broad grin and a thumbs up.

"So, Japan's attack affected you that greatly? I did not realize you were so easy to push, Comrade."

The corner of America's grin twitched down at the label, but he quickly recovered. "Yeah, well the dick bombed Hawaii. So as far as I'm concerned, it's only fair for me to bomb him back. 'Cept I've got the common courtesy to wait until we're actually at war with each other to do it."

"Mhm, yes. Fairness is priority in Capitalist America, isn't it?" Russia jibed, enjoying the opportunity to say such things in person. So much more satisfying when he could see his adversary's expressions.

"Tch, whatever," America brushed away with a casual wave of his hand and started walking again. "You're getting my help whether you want it or not. Why can't you just say 'Thanks' like England and France did when I told them?"

"Because I don't like you." Russia stated with clear candidness, as if he were giving America the hour rather than such an open declaration of opinion.

"Feeling's mutual bub, but that doesn't mean we can't work together. I mean, England doesn't like France, but he's still helping him. Even letting the guy stay at his house and all."

"France is living with England now?"

"Yeah, apparently it's too dangerous in continental Europe for him to stay there. But hey, should make for a good meeting."

"How so?"

"Well, with those two living together now they must be getting on each other's nerves all the time. So, they'll be arguing a lot more." America explained with an almost twisted smile.

"Then we won't get any planning accomplished." Russia replied, supplying a deadpan expression to counter America's more jovial mood.

"True," America conceded with a shrug, but the smile remained firmly in place. "But it'll be fun to watch, at the very least."

The two walked the last few dozen feet down the hallway in silence and America moved to open one of the two oak doors.

"By the way," he said, hand curled around the large brass handle. "We don't really even need a plan; you've got me." He winked before swinging the door wide open in his usual flashy manner. Before he could utter his usual greeting or before Russia could reply to America's latest statement, the two nations were besieged by the unwelcome sight of exposed limbs, contorted positions, and low -but not quiet- moaning. They got an eyeful -and earful- of everything in less than a second, which was the amount of time it took for America's stuttering mind to command his muscles to shut the door.

"Oh my Stars and Garters." America murmured, leaning against the adjacent wall. He placed a gloved hand over his mouth and groaned. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"D-Da," Russia shakily agreed.

The only sound that echoed in the empty hallway -thankfully the heavy doors blocked out any sounds that could have escaped the room- was America's choked breaths. He slid down the wall until he was sitting, knees drawn up to his chest, and hid his face behind his gloved hands.

"That…I just…on the table…" It seemed that America couldn't find it in himself to articulate just how exactly what he'd seen made him feel, but Russia needed no such explanation. He knew England was a sort of Father-Brother to the ex-colony. And France was likely a sort of Uncle-Brother figure with his presence in the Canada and the Gulf area. He imagined what just occurred was akin to walking in on one's parents; parents you'd never once even remotely considered to be together. Especially not like that.

America carefully stood onto unsteady feet and stumbled away from the meeting room, with each step further away becoming more secure. "I need a drink." Russia could hear the Western nation grumble as he passed by him.

And, for once, Russia deemed the American's plan to be brilliant and decided to wholeheartedly join him.

"Rus-rus-russia." America finally said after a quelling a few wet belches.

"Mhm, Amerika?" Russia asked lazily. As he waited for said nation to reply, he took another deep draught from his 2nd vodka bottle.

"I, I don't want to sex you." America muttered before chugging a few mouthfuls of whiskey.

"Eh?" Russia said, not quite sure if he had understood the American in his state of inebriation.

"I don't wanna sex you." America replied, his words a tad messier than before. "I don't like you, Russki. England doesn't like France. But he…they…I don't want us…"

"Oh," Russia interjected, showing the verbally stumbling nation that he understood the point. "Don't worry. I don't want to sex you either."

"But, but, Iv-Russia." America protested. He reached over to clutch Russia's shoulder and once America grasped him, he turned Russia to face him. "'M serious. No sex. None."

"I understand, Amerika. I'd sooner kill you than sex you."

At this death threat, America smiled with what seemed to be relief. "Thanks, thanks buddy. I promise I'll kill you too."

Back in the meeting room, England and France -who had just finished a rather, intimate, summit of their own- were wondering what was keeping the other members of their Allied Party from arriving in a timely manner. China, they knew, was having a difficult time with Japan breathing down his neck, so his absence could be forgiven. However, despite their own heavy contributions to the war thus far, Russia and America were still very much able to attend. So the tardiness of these two younger nations seemed to be nothing less than a direct snub against the two who had found the time to conduct private matters while still being ready for the meeting to begin. With that in mind England decided to search for the young upstarts.

"When I find that berk, I'll have to brain him so thoroughly he won't be able to what day it is." England snapped as he threw open the next doorway they came across on their march around the building.

"Hm, that will certainly make it more difficult for America to be on time, mon cher." France teased as he traced his gloved fingertips up and down England's spine.

"Like he can do it properly to begin with!" England harrumphed as he shrugged France's hand off. "And if we find Russia as well, then that's two cowsons I get to crease!"

France scoffed the moment the declaration left England's lips. "If you feel the need to discipline someone who can manually dismantle tanks, then be my guest."

Three doors later, England and France saw Russia and America sitting on the floor of an empty room –judging by the folding walls, it was a section that opened up to a larger banquet hall. Scattered around the two were over a dozen glass bottles of a litany of spirits. With a gin bottle in hand, America was petting the ashen blond hair of Russia who, with a gorilka bottle in hand, had his face in America's neck.

"-so whatcha gotta do is keep the phosph'rous sealed from air 'cuz, oh, lookie who's here. The, the, the," America canted his head back, searching the ceiling, "ah, I can't think of anythin'."

"Suka blyád," Russia mumbled.

"Na, na, I-I mean somethin' like, clever. Pun, I wanna pun."

"And I want an ally who shows up on time and sober!"

"Was, was sober, definitely sober." America nodded diligently. He sucked down another shot or two of gin from the bottle while Russia tilted his head to expose his mouth for more gorilka. With one swallow, he finished the gorilka and held it aloft, as though showcasing an accomplishment, before dropping it amongst the other bottles with a clatter. He laboriously lifted his head off America's shoulder in search of a new bottle. After he hummed quietly in a discontent way over not finding anything, America nudged his gin bottle to Russia's cheek and Russia took the proffered drink with a wobbly smile.

It was while America was patting down his person and finding what looked to be a bottle of cognac wedged between him and the wall that he leaned against that England lost the last vestiges of his patience.

"You two could really learn a thing or two about maturity from us!" England snapped.

In lieu of words, America and Russia vomited in response.

A/N: 1930/1940's slang

Berk – a fool, an incompetent

Cowson – term mild to medium abuse for a person

Crease – to kill

suka blyád – roughly means "bitch whore"