It had been a week. Exactly one week since that nasty, terrible awful blizzard. One week longer than than anyone nations' intended stay in Moscow. The longer America had stayed, the worse he felt. He was jittery, paranoid, and his constant consumption of the disgusting, complementary hotel coffee and England's nagging wasn't helping. His dreams had become more vivid and they always centered around the Goddamn Russian. He was always there, every imposing and gnawing at the back of America's mind; like a poison slowly eroding through the sensitive tissues of skin until it hit something vital.

But it would all end soon. The storm was over. He was leaving Russia. That would fix the problem, right?

Bags were packed, goodbyes were said, and airports were being flooded.

Yes. The glorious, glorious airport was back in operation.

Yet America didn't have the energy to be as ecstatic as he knew he wanted to be. He was too tired. His mind felt like equivalent of the slushy, sloppy, watery snow that covered the city sidewalks. He could hardly focus enough to remember which gate was his. But he did because he knew he must. There was no room for error in his all-to-welcomed departure from Russia's capital. Never before had America been so elated to get on a plane in his life.

The flight was agonizing long and the taxi ride was even longer. He had received word from his boss as soon as the plane touched down that he was given a few days off to "re-cooperate" from his extended time in Russia. No doubt England had told his boss who told America's boss about his little "episode". As if it wasn't already embarrassing enough! At least England was in his own country now and America could breathe. He knew England meant well, but he wasn't his little brother anymore (Why couldn't England figure this out?).

He quickly paid the driver, thanked him numerous times, and gave him a rather generous tip. He then half-sprinted up the stone pathway to his beautiful country estate. His favorite place in the world. His sanctuary. His home.

The estate was a beautiful white plantation-styled house, complete with columns and large windows. In the summer, rose bushes bloomed and the grass was soft and green. Yet the manor was just as majestic in the winter; even with the apple trees in their winter sleep, barren and lightly frosted.

America took a deep breath in through his nose, relishing in the nostalgically crisp, clean air. He unlocked the wide oak wood doors and stepped into the manor. He was instantly greeted by the soft, warm scent of Pledge and an air-freshener that smelled like fresh laundry. America smiled. It was nice to know his boss sent a cleaning crew to make the place welcome.

I'll have to remember to thank him, thought America.

As America was unpacking (although his definition of unpacking was throwing clothing into random drawers), his cell phone began to ring.

England.

America rolled his eyes, but smiled and answered, "Yo, dude. America here!"

"I suppose you're feeling better, git?" He said.

Alfred's smile grew as he could practically see the Brit rolling his eyes through the phone.

"You know it. I'm the Hero. I just needed to get back home. Russia and cold are my kryptonite you know!" America laughed.

"Yes, yes. I was just calling to make sure you were... okay." The Englishman said, somewhat hesitantly; Compassion was not his strong suit.

America laughed again, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm okay, Iggy. I got a few days off to relax."

"Ah. Yes. Jolly good. I'll let you get back to that then...WAIT? IGGY?"

"Later dude!"

The conversation ended with a click and America smiled. Maybe it wasn't so bad having England around to look after him...

Russia sat at home in front of the fire, fingers laced and brow furrowed in concentration.

America was in his home country.

This was a set back. He hadn't had enough time to draw him in. Though he had invaded his dreams, America was still fighting back. His mind was still strong...too strong. Russia knew tearing the American down would be no easy task, but he never suspect the idiot to have that strong of a will.

He turned his gaze to the warm glow of the fire. He smiled. The flame reminded him of the American, in a way. Beautiful to look at, pleasant to have around when one's world is so cold; yet devastatingly powerful. With one explosive temper tantrum, the boy could destroy a building, just as fire would decimate anything in it's path. Russia knew this much first hand.

What a fool he had been to summarize the boy was merely brute strength! The others might believe he was all brawn and no brains, but Russia knew better. He had been equal to the boy once, but what he would be a simply test of mettle, a mere "I can do anything better than you can!" contest, turned out to be a potentially deadly game of wits.

And America had won.

Russia's lips twitched into a humorous grin. Yes... breaking the American would be no easy feat. Russia knew he must be patient. He must remain calm and steadfast, determined and ever vigilant.

I must think of a new tactic, Russia thought, one that will really get inside his head.

The Slavic nation closed his eyes in thought. What was the one taboo Russia could cross without causing any truly harmful damage? A taboo that would crawl under America's skin and make him squirm? Make him writhe with discomfort? Yet not to so much damage so the boy would have another reason to shut Russia down?

England? No. Too far. They had become rather close in recent years and even closer in more recent events.

That was out.

Perhaps he mock America's States? No. America consider each state his child and treated each one as so. It would be unwise to bring America's "children" into the matter. This didn't concern them.

That was out, too.

Russia wracked his brain for anything he could use against America without provoking too much of a response. Anything. And then it hit him. A most devious and brilliant plan. Something he could use! It was neither insult nor jab, in fact, some would call it endearing. It was perfect.

Russia knew that to get under America's skin he would have to use his name.

Alfred F. Jones.

Author's Notes

Can this be? An update? *derpface*

I have no excuses other than a lame-ass writer's block. Luckily, the drawing fairy came by over Christmas and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning drawing some fanart for this story. It was pretty fucking awesome. Plus, you guys are so patient... I felt bad so I had to do something. I must say, I thought this was going to be a filler, but LOOK, something happened!

I used the power of foreshadowing.

Baha. Anyways, thank you so much for all the reviews and patience with my writer's block. I came really close to abandoning this story so many time within the past few months... I'll try harder and I promise that there will be some confrontation in the next Chapter. I'm promise on the Awesome of Prussia. (That's how fucking serious I am).

Ok, well thanks for reading. I gotta go to bed.

OH! Shout-outs!

~Wolferath: I kept my promise to update this by Saturday!

~PixelthelittlestFembot: For being fucking awesome.

and

~My boyfriend: For not judging me because I RP, write fanfics, and like yaoi. (Be jealous, ladies.)