Notes: Written for a Spain/Romano Christmas exchange. Yes, I am late in getting it posted here. I hope you all enjoy!
Tomatoes, Capiche?
Damnit, Spain. This is all your fault!
It wasn't like Southern Italy was controlled by the Mafia, as often as people might speculate it was. In truth, Southern Italy (who much preferred to go by Romano) could put them in line whenever he needed to. He let them do their thing and unless it caused undue trouble for his economy or people, he pretty much left them alone.
But, sometimes Romano heard word of plans they were making and felt he had no choice but to get involved. This was one of those times.
He'd heard whispers on the street, exchanges of messages and correspondences about a Mafia job going down in Spain. And since that idiot Spain could clearly not handle it, Romano took it bravely upon himself to take care of it.
After barging into their secret hideaway, Romano made very specific demands that he be the one to make the hand-off. And since even the biggest bosses of the Mafia knew better than to mess with Romano, they obliged.
And that is how Romano found himself standing out on the edge of a dirt road on the eastern coast of Spain, wearing a black trench coat, a black fedora and holding a nondescript black briefcase.
It was clearly, as always, completely Spain's fault.
Romano stood off to the side of the road, waiting for some nondescript black car to come, tell him the codeword and take off with the briefcase. They were already ten minutes late and Romano was starting to get impatient.
It didn't help that it was past his lunchtime and nearing his siesta hour. Didn't these idiotic Mafia people know that? Jeez…
Maybe it was the rustle of the wind, or the fact that his stomach was rumbling and he could just sense that there was something worthy of eating nearby, but Romano turned to look behind him. For the first time since he'd arrived, he took in the expansive farm that stretched out for acres behind him.
A tomato farm at that.
The nearby plant had a ripe tomato just dangling, not far from his reach. With a surreptitious glance at the empty road, Romano sat down the briefcase and quietly wandered over. He was just about to take it when he heard the sound of someone humming drawing nearer.
With a mad dash, Romano rushed back over to the roadside. He snatched back up the briefcase and popped up the collar on his coat to hide his face. The last thing he could risk right now was having his cover blown.
Not that anyone could see through his master disguise anyway. If the trench coat and fedora were not enough to throw someone off the trail, Romano had adapted a gruff, deep, voice to use in case someone did try and speak to him, and he was wearing a thin black mustache over his lip. No one would ever know it was him!
"Excuse me, can I help you?"
But at the sound of that voice, Romano's mustache fell right off his face. Of all the tomato farms in all of Spain, it had to be his farm that he ended up waiting outside of.
"No," Romano's fake gruff-voice retorted. "I don't need any help, you tomato bastard."
But of course, the amiable farmer wasn't about to back down. He just smiled anyway and walked closer.
"Ain't it an awfully warm day to be in a coat? I could at least getcha a drink," he paused, smiling brighter. "Only right of me to offer a nice Italian visiting my country a drink."
Romano stiffened. There was just no way that even the smartest person could see through his master disguise, let alone an idiot like Spain. With a huff and a tug of his collar higher up around his face, Romano shot back.
"Fine. If it'll make you go away, idiot," he groused in his low voice.
And he could swear that the jerk was stifling a laugh. How dare he laugh at a very serious member of the Italian Mafia! If he knew who he was really dealing with, there was no way in hell Spain would dare be laughing!
Eagerly awaiting the sound of retreating footsteps, Romano about jumped out of his skin when Spain's hand settled onto his shoulder and a cool bottle of water was held out in front of him.
"Here, I happened to have something with me. It gets hot out here working in the sun."
Romano darted out a hand to take the bottle, and quickly took a sip. A few moments passed before he started sputtering, his face flushing red. "Wait a minute you pervert! You'd already drank from this, so- so- " He abruptly cut himself off on realizing he was using his normal voice to speak, not his undercover voice. Deepening his voice back to its croaky timbre, he continued. "You bastard, it's like…"
Spain smiled, unnervingly bright. "Like indirectly kissing? Yah, I suppose it is."
Dreamily he stared off at the horizon, tilting his wide-brimmed straw hat back on his head as he did so. "Nice day, isn't it? I wish my boyfriend would come visit me, but he said he was busy."
"You don't have a boyfriend you…" Once again, Romano had spoken with his own voice. And once again he corrected it and finished his sentiment with his false voice. "You're a loser. Of course you don't have a boyfriend."
Taking off his straw hat to fan himself with it, Spain took a sideways step towards Romano. "Hmm. Maybe I don't. I'm not sure," he scratched the back of his head. "Now that I think about I don't think I ever directly asked him out or anything. Maybe that's why he's always mad at me. Huh."
"Y-You idiot!"
Romano was about to turn on him and give him a thorough list of reasons why he was a total jerk, and more importantly, ask him when the hell he ever planned on asking Romano out formally anyways because Damnit Spain, it's not like I've been waiting for that or anything, you asshole!
But before a single bit of his tirade could leave his lips, the rumble of a plane engine flying low sounded overhead. Romano's eyes darted to the plane, which was just brushing the tops of the neighboring farm's tomato plants, to Spain, who looked completely unconcerned that this very plane was headed straight for them.
"Spain you bastard, get the hell down!" Romano yelled out, throwing aside the briefcase and jumping atop the other nation to knock him flush against the ground.
The plane just missed them as it swung over, Romano's mid-air fedora getting caught in the propeller blades and shredded to bits.
"¡Dios mío! Romano, are you okay? It didn't…"
Romano clutched fistfuls of Spain's shirt and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. "It's not me! I mean…damnit! I'm not him!"
Spain chuckled, his chest rising and falling with a staccato rhythm under Romano's fists. "Funny, no one else ever calls me 'tomato bastard' but him. And I really wanted to see him today. Fresh harvest of tomatoes and way too many for me to eat by myself."
Romano pulled back then, angry tears starting to well up in his eyes as he glared down at Spain and his damn blissful smile beneath him. "Damnit all, Spain! You could have gotten hurt!"
Spain blinked, clearly lost. "What? Well, I guess that plane was flying a bit low and…"
"I'm doing a damned job for the Mafia and you were out there chatting away with me like some moron!"
The realization dawned in Spain's eyes and his mouth gaped open. "You were…" he glanced to the trench coat, then to the briefcase. "Why didn't you say so before now?"
Romano smacked his forehead then once again grabbed up angry fistfuls of Spain's abused shirt. "Idiot! It was supposed to be secret!"
Now, if possible, Spain looked even more perplexed. "Why were you on a secret Mafia mission at my farm, Romano?"
"Argh! I hate you!" Romano huffed, flopping face-down against him and feebly pounding his fists against his chest. "Stupid stupid stupid!"
"Did I…do something wrong?" He queried.
At that, Romano sat abruptly upright and quickly threw off his trench coat. He could hear the plane coming around again and that clearly meant that whoever it was had indeed been sent to stop the delivery.
"Look here Spain. I really hate you and you owe me lunch and dinner and perhaps a midnight snack to make up for ruining this, but right now you need to kiss me before that damned pilot thinks I'm the guy he's after, okay you jerk?"
Spain's eyes widened and a he started to smile. "Romano, you want me to kiss yo-"
But he never go to finish his statement because Romano had closed the distance between them, insistently and forcefully pressing their lips together as the rumble of the plane drew closer. Spain's arms wrapped up around him, not quite sure what kissing had to do with the poor pilot who was circling around, but he figured why not?
At the rush and rumble of the plane mere inches above them, they both instinctively gripped each other tighter, Romano's tongue now plunging into Spain's mouth as he gasped in shock. A true Italian, and not about to let some loser 'country of passion' try and take the lead, Romano shifted his legs to straddle Spain's hips. He sat up then with a serious smirk and yanked a pleasantly dazed Spain up with him.
"That plane probably has a hit on whoever is here to make the delivery for that briefcase. But he won't care about two farmers making out in the tomato fields. If we don't put on one damned good show, he'll know it's me, capiche?"
Slowly, Spain followed him. "Wait. So you're on a secret mission and that guy in the plane is trying to stop you?"
"Will you just make out with me before he tries to kill us both? Jeez!"
Spain leaned in close and smiled against Romano's lips, causing the other nation to turn scarlet. "Okay, if that's what you really want, Romano..."
His low husky voice sent a shudder down Romano's spine and he had to strongly resist the urge to shove the jerk away. This was for his mission. For the family. For, well damnit, it was for Spain.
It figured it would be his fault. Bastard.
"Just shut the hell up and kiss me, Spain!" Romano yelled.
Spain happily complied.
After more kissing, groping and other public displays of affection than were probably necessary, Romano insisted that since Spain completely blew his cover that it was his responsibility to tend to Romano's needs that night.
"I need a meal, or two, or perhaps three because I haven't had lunch yet. Then we need to hide the briefcase out here with a sign that says 'MUFFINS' on it in large letters. The right people will find it. Oh and I'm sleeping in your bed because damnit there's no hotel anywhere around here and it's entirely your fault anyway!" Romano listed them off one by one as the two walked back to Spain's farmhouse.
Spain just smiled and put an arm around Romano's shoulders. "Romano?"
"Don't touch me!" He retorted, throwing the arm off.
"I was hoping I could touch my boyfriend, ya know?"
Romano's face heated up as he turned tomato-red. With a scowl, he hung his head and mumbled a reply. "Where the hell would you get that idea?"
"Can I be your boyfriend, Romano? Formerly speaking, since we already do…well, boyfriend activities quite often."
"We do nothing of the sort, you pervert!" Romano yelled back, his face getting even brighter red. "And there's no way in hell I'm being your boyfriend unless I get something to eat in the next twenty minutes. And a siesta. It's almost three."
Spain noticed the tentative hand brushing the back of his and he clasped it. For once, Romano didn't pull away.
"A quick meal and a nice nap it is then, mi novio."
"I-I hate you. Jerk," Romano mumbled, soundly strangely touched.
Spain pressed a chaste kiss to Romano's forehead before opening the door to the house. "Go wait in the bedroom, I'll bring you a meal there then you can have your siesta. How's that?"
Romano glared. "You're an idiot, Spain."
But Spain just kept smiling. "I'll make your favorite dish then."
That evening when the Mafia did manage to send someone out to pick up the briefcase, they found a large sign pointing into a hastily buried mound of dirt.
It simply read: "For the evil muffins."
THE END
Notes:
¡Dios mío! – Good god!
mi novio – my boyfriend
capiche – 1940s slang (quite often associated with the mafia) for "do you understand?"