Chapter Text
"'Kay, so," Alfred says casually, his greasy fingers smearing over the stolen blueprints. His once clean dress-shirt is torn and patched with oil stains, and his tie is tied 'round his wrist in a sad attempt to bandage the cut he'd gotten from the angry guy with the stick. He'd lost the jacket somewhere along the way, which sucks, 'cause he looked damned nice in that suit. "I think we made a mistake."
"A mistake," Ivan repeats slowly, carefully listening for any sign of movement from the floor above. He's somehow still looking composed and nonchalant as ever, despite the bloodstains on his gloves and his murderous little sister relentlessly chasing after him. Ivan is also completely ignoring the fact that he was near tears a few moments ago because of his oh-so-scary little half-sister, and Alfred is being totally polite and benevolent by not mentioning it.
Meanwhile, Gilbert is twitching every so often, and he lets out this loud, uncontrolled, nervous laugh. Alfred shushes him by covering his mouth with both hands.
Gilbert makes a frantic sound, probably meant to mean "fuck your hands are so gross don't touch me," but Alfred cheerfully ignores him. Gilbert's hair is disheveled beyond belief and his shirt is buttoned wrong, but then again, he usually looks like that.
"Just a bit of a miscalculation!" Alfred chimes in a whisper.
"Fredka," Ivan says sweetly, quietly. "I know very well that sulfuric acid is quite dangerous when forced down one's throat."
"Geez, Vanya, everyone knows that!" Alfred hisses. "I don't get how you think spewing random facts at people somehow makes you more threatening." Gilbert is flailing in his hold. "Anyway, this is only a minor setback!"
"There is no such minor in this matter," Ivan hisses back, and the three of them still at the sound of a heavy-set door opening
Gilbert frees himself from Alfred's deathgrip while he's distracted. "You took the wrong plans, didn't ya."
Alfred forces a grin. "Maybe?"
Gilbert just stares at Alfred with those tired, slightly manic red eyes. "I knew I could trust ya, kid. Hey, Braginsky, hand me that revolver you're always keepin' with you and never admittin' to havin'. I need to kill myself. Or him."
"I do not have any weaponry on my person, Mr. Beilschmidt," Ivan says briskly.
"Fuck you too, Braginsky."
There's the sound of voices from the floor above.
"Fuck," Alfred says. "Is Kiku talking to your crazed half-sister?"
Ivan frowns. "She's not crazed, she's simply having a fit at the moment."
"Dude, if that's a tantrum then I don't wanna see her succumb to psychosis like you did," Gilbert grumbles, trying to wipe his mouth on-- shit is that Alfred's handkerchief?
(The little maple-leaf patterned one Mattie had given him all those years ago, with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile, last thing he did for Alfred 'til his blood dripped to the floor and Alfred was too late to see who had--)
"YOU DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH THAT WITH YOUR WHORE MOUTH," Alfred shrieks, and doesn't hear Ivan mutter a curse beneath his breath (if he had, he would've held it over his head for years, because that would've been the first time he'd ever hear Ivan Braginsky swear.)
"Fuck, you're stupid," Gilbert says, as the sound of Natalia Arlovskaya's cold, suspicious voice rings out, "What was that?" Alfred freezes.
"Sulfuric acid," Ivan snaps at him.
"Still not getting the intimidation factor," Alfred squeaks.
"It will hurt." Ivan's eyes are bright with danger and his smile is wide.
"Okay, calm down, psycho," Gilbert intervenes. Ivan huffs. "We'll crucify Jones later, but first we have to get out alive, and away from your totally-not-crazy half-sister."
"Priorities," Alfred agrees.
"You." Gilbert pokes his finger in Alfred's face, directly between his eyes. "Are not. Allowed. To talk."
Alfred slowly nods, and the three of them hear Kiku's flustered attempts at keeping Natalia from entering the basement.
"Alright," Gilbert says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. But then he grins brightly, wildly. Obnoxiously. "Right, so first of all, Jones. You're runnin' up the stairs sayin' there's a fire. Arlovskaya's never seen you yet. Just pretend to be Kiku's roommate, the kid'll roll with it. You get everyone outside. Braginsky, you and I actually are settin' the place on fire. We'll get out through the basement door." He points at the aforementioned door-- the house's basement is only half-underground. Alfred frowns worriedly. At least this isn't actually where Kiku lives.
"But remember." Gilbert grins that feral grin again. "Fire."
"That is ridiculous," Ivan says. "It sounds rather life-threatening. And also fun."
"Damn right, psycho, my plans are always awesome. We'll meet up at the hotel room, 8PM tomorrow. And you," Gilbert pokes Alfred's cheek. "You're allowed to talk for critical reasons only. Critical, like, you're 'bout to die 'cause you're hung up above a swarm of flesh-eatin' scorpions dipped in kerosene, that type a' critical. And also fire. That too."
Yeah, yeah, whatever, Beilschmidt. Alfred nods and tries not to sulk.
"So," Gilbert says. "Can I have the gun now, Braginsky--"
Ivan smiles. With teeth. "No."
"Fuck you."
"Perhaps later."