A/N: This is my Hetalia Sunshine fill, where my requester asked for Prussia, Denmark and England in a Mafia AU. This is my first time writing Denmark, so I hope his characterization is okay. Enjoy, everyone! :D
Guns with a Candy Bar
It had originally been a pretty easy mission. Sneak into the warehouse of a rival drug smuggling ring, deliver a warning to their target: the leader of said ring known under the pseudonym of 'Mr. Chang' who had been recently encroaching upon the Mafia's territory, then blow some shit up.
Key word: originally.
"Fuck." England said eloquently. And as that didn't seem enough to convey the full seriousness of the situation, he said again, in a louder voice, "Fuck."
"Well, this isn't gay at all," Denmark muttered from where he was wedged between his two teammates. The three hitmen lay on their stomachs inside the vent, limbs folded, torsos crushed. They were stuck.
Let's just say that vents looked a lot bigger until you were actually inside them. And while three grown men could fit, they certainly couldn't move, or shift, or possibly even breathe.
It was very uncomfortable.
Extraordinarily uncomfortable, you might say, as the ordinary meaning of uncomfortable could not possibly describe the awkwardness of three men squashed side to side in an abandoned shaft while one of their faces itched and the itching would not go away.
Denmark sneezed. His face still itched.
"Oi, Denmark, budge up, will ya?" Prussia said, accidentally-on-purpose shoving Denmark in the ribs. "Your axe is cutting the awesome me in my side!"
"I should think not," England shot back before Denmark could reply. "If he moves any further, he's going to take my head off." And the statement was true one, if not a tad hyperbolic. Even though Denmark's axe was fitted snugly between his shoulder blades on his back, it was so big that the blades grazed both England and Prussia's sides and could easily gut them if he moved carelessly.
"Why the fuck is it so big, anyway? You're not compensating for something, are yo-"
"Stop whining, you two!" Denmark interrupted, wiggling so that his axe shifted and his teammates inwardly cringed. "And let's figure out the best way to fuck up our target when he's here!"
"Rather hard to do when you can't even move your elbows," England said dryly.
"Alright, England, don't get your boxers in a bunch," Denmark replied easily, a grin on his face.
"Boxers? Man, England doesn't wear boxers. He probably wears frilly white panties. Or bloomers." Prussia said, sniggering. England made an incomprehensible noise of fury and tried to reach over and strangle him. Denmark's axe got in the way.
"Hey, yeah! Oh-oh, no, what about French lingerie? All satin and lace and shit-Ow!" Denmark's chortling was promptly cut off as England whacked him with the butt of his gun before jabbing Prussia's spine with it and scowling fiercely.
"Belt up, you wankers!" He hissed, slipping the weapon back into his holsters. "If you haven't noticed, we're supposed to be on doing our jobs, not trading jokes like a bunch of fucking juveniles."
Then, almost like an afterthought, he added, "And like I would ever wear anything French."
Silence ensued. Extremely awkward silence penetrated by extremely disturbing mental images of French lingerie and England.
"Look," England finally said, sighing heavily and rubbing his temples, thus inadvertently elbowing Denmark in the face. "This is just a-a minor setback. On three, you push yourself out, Denmark, so you can assume your planned position, then Prussia can go to his position, and I'll-"
"And you'll stay behind and be a fucking pansy, as usual!" Prussia crowed, reveling in the chance to annoy the British man while he was out of throttling distance.
That was technically not true. While England was indeed their backup, the fact that when your primary offensive were two boisterous idiots who wouldn't even notice if a random thug came behind them with a knife made being the backup an extremely busy and important job.
Also, it would be wise to state that England was dangerous when he wanted to be.
England was kind of like those people with an alter ego. Stuffy old British man with a thinly veiled hooligan side by day, stuffy old British man with a thinly veiled hooligan side who could pin you on the floor with one hand then shoot your fucking head off with the other.
(And yeah, the shooting people thing made a big difference)
Both Prussia and Denmark, having seen the 'head blowing up' thing, were aware of this. So when England amiably asked if Prussia wanted his limbs ripped off and stuck in the nearest lavatory, Prussia amicably replied that he would not.
"Yeah, whatever." Denmark said. "As long as we can start with the shooting already!" His eyes were gleaming with a kind of fierce excitement, determined to start their job.
Prussia grinned, his teeth gleaming like a shark's. "Now we're talking."
It was, England reflected, Prussia's and Denmark's eagerness to fight that made them such good shooters. Too bad it was also their eagerness to fight that made them prone to life-threatening idiocy.
"So, on three." He whispered. His team mates nodded.
With a grunt of effort, Denmark managed to free his arms, sticking them out and placing them on the wall below the vent so he could push himself out.
"One, two, three!" Wiggling in his hips in what was probably an extremely indecent manner, Denmark bent his elbows and managed to push himself out of the vent, landing in a neat crouch on the floor. It was chilly outside, he realized, absent-mindedly rubbing his knee. There were even goosebumps rippling over his skin.
The rumble of a car outside the warehouse quickly brought back his attention to the mission. Before anyone could react, Mr. Chang entered, followed by a quartet of guards that constantly rotated around him like the bizarre black petals of a flower.
He technically hadn't gotten in position yet, which meant he wasn't close enough to unleash his axe of asskicking on the target, but there wasn't time to fix that now. Denmark's hand quickly closed round his axe. He had always envisioned himself charging in on the enemy with a bloodcurdling yell, weapon burnished and glowing terribly in the light of burnt villages and pillaged towns just like his Viking ancestors had done. It was a terribly appealing image.
"Denmark!" England was whispering urgently above him, his voice hushed but desperate. "Denmark-"
"YAAAAH!" Denmark screamed at the top of his lungs, waving his axe and running headfirst into the group.
Chang's bodyguards were the best of the best, having sacrificed countless hours to hone their skills, virtually prepared for every kind of scenario from bombs to rabid junkies, but there is very little to prepare you for an axe-brandishing madman yelling at the top of his lungs to ambush you in the middle of the drug run.
The fact that the axe-brandishing madman was wearing boxers with fluffy little ducklings did nothing to clarify matters.
And so for one very crucial second, the bodyguards froze. Their guns slackened in their grips.
And Denmark promptly hit one of the head with the flat blade of his axe.
The guard in question dropped like a wet sack full of something that was very dense and very sticky and possibly with an anvil filling.
This, of course, didn't go over terribly well with the others, and with the lightning-fast reflexes of someone who has spent more time than was probably with guns, they all trained their weapons on Denmark-
-Only to scatter as a spray of bullets came flying towards them and peppered the air with a series of earsplitting cracks.
"Surprise, motherfuckers!" Prussia cackled gleefully as he leapt up from behind the crates, sawed-off shotgun in one hand, and some strange and floppy black thing in the other.
The guards reacted instantly, forming a protective wall around Mr. Chang and firing their guns. Hell broke loose.
Bullets ripped through the air among the chaotic swirl of hurried movements and pained shouts. Denmark's axe flashed as he dodged and swung. The notable absence of pants, he realized, was actually rather liberating. It helped him move faster. And the healthy breeze around his knees was kind of nice.
"Need some help?" Prussia swooped in, his eyes alight with adrenaline, and let off another shot, causing a chunk of something to fall from the ceiling and forcing the guards to scatter.
"Yeah, right! I'm kicking major ass!" Denmark yelled back, deflecting a bullet with the blade of his axe. Prussia managed to dispatch one of the guards with a hidden dagger while Denmark brought down another with a flamboyant swing of his axe.
For a moment, both men stood triumphantly over their fallen enemies, chest heaving, blood racing, intoxicated and mesmerized by the heady feel of victory.
Then Prussia realized something. Something very important.
"Hey, where's the last guard?"
Almost exactly like those horror movies where the hapless teen goes 'hey, where's [insert recently deceased victim/serial killer here]?' the last bodyguard suddenly popped out behind them, a pistol in each hand, lips curled in snarl as his fingers tightened around the trigger.
Then as the guard fired, a flash of black suddenly appeared in front of them, followed by a loud, sharp crack of bullets being fired simultaneously before both the guard and the figure that had saved their lives crumpled to the floor.
"ENGLAND!" England was sprawled on the ground, his face white with pain as crimson began to bloom on his suit.
"I'm alright," England rasped, pressing his fingers to his arm as they steadily became slick and red. "He just grazed me, is all. Fucker has terrible aim."
Denmark and Prussia quickly crowded around the Englishman, weapons forgotten as they helped tear off a strip of Denmark's abandoned pants and bind England's arm. Both were secretly relieved that England had been right—it was only a fairly shallow wound and something that would heal pretty easily.
"Aw, England," Prussia said when the Briton's arm had been properly dressed, grinning at him. "I always knew you cared about us!"
"I do not!" England said, turning very red in a way that suggested he meant the exact opposite of what he said. "I simply wouldn't want to get hindered with a pair of even bigger idiots than you two if you died, is all."
"Hear that, Prussia?" Denmark said, an identical shit-eating grin on his face. "England doesn't want us to die! Is that just sweet?"
"Absolutely precious." Prussia replied, while England scowled and curled his hands around his pistols.
A long pause in which England adjusted his dressings, because Denmark had bound them too tight.
"But…uh, thanks." Denmark suddenly said, scratching his head somewhat ruefully. "For saving our asses. And shit. Not that we weren't totally capable of saving ourselves, of course."
"Yeah, the awesome me would have to be less awesome if there was a bullet wedged in my head," Prussia added, giving England a rough pat on the arm that meant well, but as it was on England's injured arm made him give a little 'urk' of pain.
England's blush deepened as he looked away.
"Yes, well, I suppose I'm fairly glad for the fact that both of you aren't dead just yet," He admitted, putting a hand to the bridge of his nose in a fairly ineffectual attempt to hide his blush. "I would do it again, if I had to."
And for a moment, all three of them basked in the glow and comfort of each other's companionship, appreciating the awkward yet impossibly volatile camaraderie between them. It felt very warm and nice. Like a purring kitten in the chest, radiating love and heat. Only that kitten would be made of scrap metal and uranium and it would radiate only radiate heat and love because it had been set on fire, because Mafia men did not associate with kittens, no matter how nice and purry they were.
It was a good moment.
That is, until Prussia realized something. Something very important.
"Hey, where's Mr. Chang?"
Their target, as it turned out, had almost gotten away while the three were temporarily distracted. Mr. Chang was revving up the engine when Prussia, Denmark and England made it just in time, bursting dramatically through the window with their guns and axes ablaze.
With a cry of 'THIS IS FOR ENGLAND, MOTHERFUCKER!' and 'I'M THE GODDAMN BATMAN!', Mr. Chang was promptly dispatched.
After delivering a nicely executed threat to Mr. Chang about how he was ignoring boundaries and going beyond his territory and it was going to very, very unpleasant if it didn't stop and tying him and his guards up in a nearby closet, it was time for the grand finale.
"We need to set off the explosives." England shouted. Before their mission, somebody had subtly planted a series of incendiaries within the warehouse. It wouldn't take much to get them going and make the place light up like Guy Fawkes Day. England pulled out a small glass bottle sloshing with some kind of liquid from god knows where, uncorked it, then withdrew a white rag. He stuffed the rag into the bottle, filled with what Denmark and Prussia realized was gasoline and corked it with some difficulty, swearing about his injured arm.
"Holy shit, England, you seriously brought a fucking Molotov Cocktail?" Prussia asked, unable to keep the delighted grin off his face. The prospect of explosions always filled him with joy.
"I'll throw it," Denmark cut in, slinging his axe back.
"Like hell you will, you already got the first hit in, I'm totally going to blow that place sky-high-"
"With the kind of arm you have? You might hit an old lady or something!"
And it soon dissolved into a very silly wrestling match. Prussia elbowed Denmark in the side. Denmark elbowed him back in the stomach and attempted to put him in a head lock before Prussia shoved him away and tried to bite him.
Meanwhile, England calmly lit the cocktail and promptly hurled it into the warehouse.
The effects were instantaneous. England had managed to land the cocktail almost exactly on an explosive, and they were all blinded by a white-orange light, heat searing their faces as the building blew up with an earsplitting roar.
Denmark and Prussia stared mutely as the structure began to collapse on itself, its skeleton eerily glowing the night as it crumbled and snapped. Disappointment was etched heavily on their faces.
"Now." England said, brushing dust off his hands, perfectly unfazed. "That wasn't too hard, was it. Anyone up for a drink?" He didn't seem bothered by the stony silence or Denmark and Prussia's indignant glares as England walked away whistling idly, leaving his two teammates to look resentfully after him.
"Next time, we'll tie him up and play rock-paper-scissors to see who throws it." Prussia muttered to Denmark. The spiky-haired man nodded, his eyes lighting up with anticipation.
All in all, just another night's work.