38 - The World In His Eyes
Title: The World In His Eyes
Characters: England, America, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: December 25, 1950 - Holy shit, you guys, America went crazy in 1950. Also, a very Commonwealth Christmas! The Korean War! NSC-68! CONTAINMENT! And we finally find out who's to blame for, well, the Cold War.
BONUS: Poll questions at the end!
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
England's House. December 25, 1950.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when England heard America pound at the door. It had to be America; everyone else used the knocker like a civilized person, and, anyway, he was expected. England looked out the window over the sink; rain drizzled down in cold grey sheets, and he could only see the corner of a coat, huddled in under the awning.
Another knock: bam bam bam bam bam. England took his time drying a mug. "Canada?"
A muffled bump from up the stairs. "Ow--Yeah?"
"Would you get the door? Your brother is here."
England smiled a bit at the voices and clatter and cheerful stumbling noises and wet air that floated in as America was ushered inside. "Dude, I'm so sorry I'm late! It was just, you know, Korea--I have spent two weeks in the shittiest port town you have ever seen, it's like...it was more depressing than Vancouver, I mean it--"
"Thanks," Canada said.
"Anyway, I have never been so happy to burn a place down. ...Merry Christmas, though!"
A smile entered Canada's voice. "Merry Christmas!" His footsteps went from the parquet entrance hall to the living room carpet, and America’s followed. "Don't worry about getting here late; you kinda dodged a bullet. We've already opened presents and everything, so England's, you know. Enlisted us. Did you see Australia out there? He's up on the roof. He told me he'd try to hit you with some of the shit from the storm drain when you finally showed up."
"Nah, he was hanging out next to the wood pile trying to smoke when I pulled up. Canada." England heard America clap his hand on Canada's shoulder and say earnestly, "Revolution means never needing to rake the leaves when you go to England's house for the holidays."
England snorted and hooked the mug into the rack.
"I don't remember you doing many chores before your revolution, either," Canada said dryly.
There was a rumple of paper. "Anyway, here's your present. It's not much, but like, whatever, you probably just got me a hockey jersey again anyway. Where's New Zealand?"
"Thanks." A louder rustle. "He's in the attic. We've been moving furniture. Hey, New Zealand!"
There was a muffled thump from overhead. "What?"
"America's here! He says hi!"
"Hi, America!"
"Merry Christmas!" America shouted. "I got you a bridge!"
"What do I need a bridge for?" Another thump, and a scuffle of cardboard boxes.
"You were telling me you wanted one!"
"Oh, that! Right! Thanks!"
"No problem!"
"Some of us are tryin' to have a durry in peace, here!" Australia shouted in.
England slapped his dishtowel down on the counter and stuck his head through the swinging door to the living room. "You know, an attempt to keep this place from turning into a zoo would mean more to me than any gift I've received today."
"England!" America beamed and pushed his heap of boxes into his brother's arms. Canada blinked and summarily dumped them on the couch. America strode forward and dragged England through the swinging door and into a hug. "Merry Christmas!"
England hugged him back, even though his sleeves were soaked through the instant they touched America's coat. "Merry Christmas," he managed. America's arms pressed into his ribcage. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm good! You know. I'm great. Commies are fuckers, but what else is new, right?" America pulled away and retreated to the entrance hall, and started tugging off mittens and boots and stripping his coat onto a peg. "God, the war was supposed to be over back in, what, back in October, when we took Pyongyang. Isn't it a rule that when you take the enemy's capital, they're supposed to give up?"
"That would make war a much simpler thing," England replied. He watched America drip rainwater all over the wood floor. The hours-old fire leapt in the grate and a soft glow caught over the droplets.
"Jesus, China's been such a, I don't even know, such a swinging dick ever since Russia told him he was the prettiest girl in school--" America jerked his shirt back down as he rucked his sweater over his head. His glasses caught on the collar, and there were a few seconds where America was an unruly, consternated lump topped by a spray of yellow hair as he struggled to recover them. "And don't get me started on Russia--"
"I'm going back upstairs," Canada said. He swiped America's glasses out of the tangle and stuck them in the other nation’s pocket as he passed him.
America freed himself from his pullover and blinked, flushed. "Thanks," he started, and flicked his glasses back on as he slung his sweater up next to his coat.
England made an open-handed gesture into the kitchen before returning to it himself. "Something to drink?"
"Yeah, thanks." America hefted one of the gifts on the couch and followed him in.
England turned the heat up under the kettle. "Russia has been giving the UN forces hell in the air," he said, and produced a box of tea leaves from a drawer.
"Oh, you meant tea." America ruffled his hair back into place and set his gift on the counter island with a thunk. It wasn't even a box, so much as a knot of wrapping paper bound into submission with spools of ribbon. "No thanks on the tea. Yeah, and I love how he seems to think that if he sneaks his planes in a few miles away from the front line, we like, won't even notice."
England chuffed, and took a neatly-wrapped parcel from next to the stove and handed it to America. "If you open your gift now, tea might not be necessary." Tea was always necessary, in his opinion, but a bottle of three-year-old Asbach Uralt brandy wasn't too shabby as a replacement.
America dropped down at the kitchen table. He slit his gift open along the seams, popping the tape with a series of bright cracks. "It's a total cause for war, what's the fancy Latin way of saying that? There's a fancy way of saying what I mean--oh, hey, nice! Thank you! I'll save this for when we finally kick China back out of the Korean Peninsula. That'll be worth nice brandy."
“Casus belli,” England murmured, and took up his gift, began working at the heavy mess of wrapping paper. It was a bit like disarming a bomb: pull a ribbon up, and the whole thing tightened. Cut one open and, well, it might not be worth the risk.
Eventually he slid a paring knife out of the block and sliced the lump open from stem to stern. Inside was a large chunk of concrete, set onto a sleek wooden mount. England frowned, turned the thing in his hand. "A rock."
America rolled his eyes. "Look at it." He picked a shortbread biscuit off the little plate in the middle of the table and nibbled at it.
England obliged him; tipped it towards the light. A little bronze tag was screwed just below the concrete: June 6th, 1944. Something went quiet in his chest. He looked up at America. "The Normandy landing?"
"Yeah!" America wiped crumbs off his lower lip with the back of his hand, and England suppressed the urge to force a napkin on him. "It's a chunk out of one of the German bunkers, from their defensive positions? The ones we blew the shit out of. I saved it! I figured you might want it, 'cause it was the first, you know, the first big military thing we did together, and that was kind of, like..." he trailed off, looked at nothing for a few seconds. Then, brightly, "Plus, it'll always remind you of the last time you invaded France!"
"He was under German occupation at the time," England said absently. He set his gift on the counter, and...was actually rather touched.
"Yeah, but you don't have to think of it that way." America grinned at him.
The tea kettle shrieked, and steam spiraled up to the ceiling. England attended it. "I suppose not," he smiled.
"Hey, I know you've been trying to get in touch with me since like, October. Sorry. I wasn't trying to brush you off or anything, I've just been busy with the, you know--" America took another biscuit.
He'd very nearly forgotten about that. England filled a tea ball with Earl Grey and poured the hot water. "I'd wanted to ask about your newest National Security Council report." He eased the tea ball in slowly, watched it bob at the surface. "You're being very...generous with your military."
"Well, I've gotta be, you know? There's a war on." America started building a house out of shortbread.
"Indeed there is," England replied. He stared out at the rain. "There wasn't, however, when it was proposed."
America paused. "Well..." one of the biscuit walls collapsed in. He caught it. "There might've been," he offered weakly. "I mean. Kinda the whole point of the report is that Russia's a warmongering dickbag, and he's gonna start stirring shit all over the place, and if I don't watch out for that, communism's gonna get everywhere, like mold or something...and look, I mean, Korea! It's true!"
England dropped the tea ball in the sink, wrapped his fingers around the handle of his mug, and moved across to the kitchen table. He sank down into the chair across from America and eyed the tower of biscuits. "And so you want to build up your military in case you have to go to war with him. And yet you've said that this is a war of ideologies."
"They're ideological bullets?" America suggested.
England frowned. "In that case, you could say that Russia is flying ideological planes over North Korea."
"Yeah, and I'm gonna ideologically kick his ass for it...one of these days," America added, and his eyes dropped back down to his construction project.
"'One of these days?'" England echoed. America's fingers snapped a biscuit in half, and he used the sharp ends to buttress a sagging corner of the tower. "Do you expect a confrontation in the near future?" Russia had been practically motionless these past few years. He was in Korea, true enough, but England imagined that had been more the product of China's arm-twisting than any real desire for war.
"Well hopefully not before I can build my military up," America muttered, and started assembling an outbuilding. "But you know what he's like these days. What he's after. He'll make a move eventually."
England watched him for a few moments, didn't say anything. America's tone hadn't changed, but the timbre of his voice had lowered. England took a sip of his tea. It burned the roof of his mouth. Finally, "He'll move more quickly if he sees you as a threat. Pouring money into your military isn't going to do anything to diffuse the situation. It will only make him want to defend himself." He sucked in a sharp breath, cooled his mouth. "This is...an unnecessary escalation."
America looked up sharply. "It's totally necessary. Look, England, Russia's not gonna back down no matter what I do. He wants to impose his authority over the whole rest of the world. And I'm--you know. I'm the only one who can really stand up to him anymore. If I'm not ready to fight him, who could be?"
"If you fight him, no one can win," England said flatly. He listened to the rain sleeting down onto the roof.
"What would you rather I do?" America's volume crept up, not much; England was sure he wasn't aware of it. "When he comes for you--you want me to just let him have you?"
"I would rather know your motivations." England sat forward, rested his fingertips on the rim of his mug. "You and Russia have a...history, and if this is personal, then the extent of your emotional involvement with him has the potential to make you careless, or unreliable--"
"Don't bring up my history with Russia." America's fingertips curled against the tablecloth, and something prickled in his voice, something too-hot and steel. "It's over. It's done. It's got nothing to do with this."
England had tensed; he wasn't sure when. He forced himself to relax. "Then you must understand how unwise it is to antagonize him. If he were the one developing his weapons, his armies, wouldn't you be tempted to launch a preemptive strike?"
America tugged a piece of shortbread out of his tower wall and chewed on it. "If I build up enough, he won't have the option of launching a preemptive strike."
"Why not?" England's eyes narrowed.
"Because if he does I'll kill him." There was no smile in America's voice, in his eyes. He sat straight, alert, shoulders square. "It won't matter if he invades. If I get enough bombs, I can kill him whenever I want."
England slowly set down his mug. Another sheet of rain fell across the windowpane. "And what if he decides to kill you first?" He tried to keep his words even.
"It doesn't matter." America popped the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and wiped away the crumbs with his thumb. "Even if he launched his nukes, I'd have a few hours' notice to send up mine."
"And what--?" England cut himself off.
What are the rest of us supposed to do? He knew the answer. They were supposed to fall in.
He swallowed, and the roof of his mouth ached where he'd burned himself.
"You gotta understand, England--" America leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded together, earnest. "This isn't like other wars. War is changing, okay? It took me a while to get my head around it, but I've got it now. It's changing. This isn't about--" he twirled his finger, pointing down at the tabletop. "Conquest, or resources. I don't care about Russia's land, and as far as I know, he doesn't care about mine. This is about our way of life. Yours and mine, and our allies'. This is about--this is about freedom, and the rule of law, against slavery under the Kremlin."
The tempo of America's voice had changed, or filled, somehow; he was orating. England felt strangely aware of his own breath, his posture, the position of his hands. He remained silent.
"So if he tries to fight me, I'll kill him. I don't need Russia to surrender. I don't give a fuck if he surrenders. Surrendering just proves that I'm stronger than him. The only thing that matters is if Russia admits that I'm right."
England stared at him. "And if he doesn't?"
America shrugged and sat back in his chair, stretched his arms out on the table. "If he doesn't, and he stays behind his own fucking borders, and sticks to oppressing his own fucking people...I'll try to bring him down from the inside. He's doing the same to me, you know? And if he tries to spread his influence into more shitslice, agrarian, backwards nations like China--fucking China--" he snarled, sudden, half to himself.
England eased up a little straighter.
A dark, tense moment passed before America spun a wild beam up at England. "Then hey, those shitslice little countries are gonna have a new best friend in the US of A. I want him alone, England, I want him completely fucking alone, or else I swear to God..." America slashed his hand across his throat.
"He could kill you, you know." It was quiet; England did not expect it to have any effect.
"Then I'll kill him back." America's smile trembled wider. His expression was so open: full of sky. "It's not like I'm gonna go for him first, God. He'll be the one to make the first move. Wait and see. He's just looking for his chance. He'd love to see me dead. He hates me, you know that?" Smiling, smiling, smiling... "I don't hate Russia. I don't. I think he's wrong, but I don't hate him. I'll kill him, though. If I need to. To defend myself. To defend us, England." That expression was radiant. America was glowing. "Because the world needs defending from that lying, cold-hearted son of a bitch."
England sat very still. He looked at America's fingers, still poised at the side of his throat, and felt dimly why he said it as he murmured, "Are you certain that Russia hates you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. What kind of a question is that?" America canted his head, dropped his hands down and folded together on the lip of the table.
"Early this year--in February--I went to collect you from Russia's house; do you remember? You ducked me at the bar somehow, and I spent the evening trying to track you down." He took a sip of tepid tea, stalled. Why--why was he saying this? "When I finally found you, you were in front of Russia's house, and you were--in his arms. He wasn't supporting you, or fending you off. He was holding you. You were holding each other. It was only when he noticed my headlights that he shoved you to the ground..."
America cooled, darkened, very suddenly, like a cloud had crossed in front of the sun. "That doesn't sound right. I don't remember that. That never happened."
"Yes, it did. You kept going on about him as we drove home. How you could fight him, and how he hadn't...felt as strong as he used to..."
America's fingers curled tighter together. "Yeah, okay, maybe I went to his place, and maybe we fought, but you're wrong about--he'd never--you must've seen something else. That never happened."
"America," he snapped, "I know what I saw."
America stood, sharp; his chair skittered away from the table and his hip bumped the edge. The biscuit tower toppled in a little shower of crumbs. "England. Take it back. I mean it."
England glared at him. "This is ridiculous. How can you expect me to deny the evidence of my own eyes--"
America's hand slammed down on the edge of the table. The platter jumped. That radiance had returned, sharper, and it was all in his eyes. Somehow, horribly, the very corner of his mouth drifted up.
There was a awful, leaden pause.
England didn't quail under that gaze, but he wanted to. The room felt too small all of a sudden, the ceiling too low, the air too close. Trapped. "Fine," he snarled. "It never happened."
America smiled.
"England!"
There was a creak and a thud from the living room, and Canada shoved through the swinging door. He propped it open with his hip, brushed a layer of dust out of his hair. "We're done with the upstairs, and I--" He paused, looked from England's face to America's, then back again. "What's...going on?"
America turned on his heel, all ease and loose shoulders. "Nothing! Just kinda, you know...politics."
Canada sighed. "Can't you two give it a rest on Christmas?"
"Sorry. You're right. Subject's totally dropped." America dusted biscuit crumbs off his pant leg.
It was as if all the tension that had been coiled up in America's body had been expelled into the air between the three of them. England's throat tightened.
Canada was looking at him, blue eyes suspicious. "England?" He asked again.
England stirred, finally let himself tear his gaze away from America. "It's nothing," he said. "Everything is fine."
America craned his neck to look out the window. "Man, why do you always make Australia do the crappy outside jobs? I mean, you know, the storm drain...Galipoli...It's not like it's his fault he's a penal colony. Actually, it's your fault he was a penal colony. Shouldn't somebody tell him to come inside in this weather?" He strode back into the living room.
England sighed and got to his feet. He made his way over to the sink, dumped the remainder of his tea down the drain, and then stood with his hands braced on the lip of the enamel, his fist and second fingers hooked into the handle of the mug. Outside, the rain poured down harder.
Canada came up beside him, tried to catch his eyes. "Are you sure--?"
"Did you misunderstand me?" England's voice cracked like a whip. "I said everything was fine."
Canada's lips tightened into a thin line--it was one of England's own expressions, he recognized it--before he turned and left, the kitchen door swinging behind him.
England listened to the door creak against the jamb, quickly at first, then slower...slower...He dropped his mug into the sink and wiped his hands on his trousers.
Take it back. Like a child.
He tried to put it out of his mind. They were allies, after all. And in any case, there was nothing on Earth that could be done about it; not by anyone, God save them, and certainly not by him.
He would not let himself wonder what America might have done if he had refused.
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I HOPE YOU LIKE FOOTNOTES
-- "I have spent two weeks in the shittiest port town you have ever seen..." That would be Hungnam, North Korea, where the last of the UN forces were trapped from December 11th to the 24th during their retreat from the Chinese counteroffensive, at the culmination of the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. The American forces razed the port to the ground following their evacuation.
-- Durry: Australian slang for 'cigarette.'
-- "The war was supposed to be over back in October..." Forces from the United States and the Republic of Korea captured Pyongyang on October 19th. The same day, Mao authorized the 'War To Resist America And Aid Korea.' Pyongyang was retaken by Chinese forces on December 5th.
-- Casus belli: Literally, 'case for war.' The Soviet Union reluctantly assisted the Chinese war effort, at Mao's insistence. Its assistance was limited to air support no closer than 60 miles from the battlefront (to give Soviet pilots experience against against the Western air forces, for some future conflict that might, from the point of view of the USSR, actually matter). They flew MiG-15s (camouflaged as PRC Air Force), which at the time were the most advanced fighters in the world. This direct intervention was a casus belli which the UN deliberately ignored in order to preserve the wider peace.
-- National Security Council Report 68 (commonly abbreviated as NSC-68) was the craziest fucking thing you can imagine. It painted the conflict between the United States and the USSR in apocalyptic tones, and called for military expenditures to be tripled, during peacetime, to attain materiel superiority over the Soviet Union. It's full of language like "[A war between] freedom under a government of laws, and slavery under the grim oligarchy of the Kremlin," (since when does America even know words like 'oligarchy?') and accused the Soviet Union of being "unlike previous aspirants to hegemony... animated by a new fanatic faith, antithetical to our own." Its predictions were wrong in almost every respect. Craziest of all? This document became the blueprint for US foreign policy during the Cold War. It's also the thing that called for proxy wars, containment, and massive nuclear buildup. So...yeah.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: England, America, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: December 25, 1950 - Holy shit, you guys, America went crazy in 1950. Also, a very Commonwealth Christmas! The Korean War! NSC-68! CONTAINMENT! And we finally find out who's to blame for, well, the Cold War.
BONUS: Poll questions at the end!
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
England's House. December 25, 1950.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when England heard America pound at the door. It had to be America; everyone else used the knocker like a civilized person, and, anyway, he was expected. England looked out the window over the sink; rain drizzled down in cold grey sheets, and he could only see the corner of a coat, huddled in under the awning.
Another knock: bam bam bam bam bam. England took his time drying a mug. "Canada?"
A muffled bump from up the stairs. "Ow--Yeah?"
"Would you get the door? Your brother is here."
England smiled a bit at the voices and clatter and cheerful stumbling noises and wet air that floated in as America was ushered inside. "Dude, I'm so sorry I'm late! It was just, you know, Korea--I have spent two weeks in the shittiest port town you have ever seen, it's like...it was more depressing than Vancouver, I mean it--"
"Thanks," Canada said.
"Anyway, I have never been so happy to burn a place down. ...Merry Christmas, though!"
A smile entered Canada's voice. "Merry Christmas!" His footsteps went from the parquet entrance hall to the living room carpet, and America’s followed. "Don't worry about getting here late; you kinda dodged a bullet. We've already opened presents and everything, so England's, you know. Enlisted us. Did you see Australia out there? He's up on the roof. He told me he'd try to hit you with some of the shit from the storm drain when you finally showed up."
"Nah, he was hanging out next to the wood pile trying to smoke when I pulled up. Canada." England heard America clap his hand on Canada's shoulder and say earnestly, "Revolution means never needing to rake the leaves when you go to England's house for the holidays."
England snorted and hooked the mug into the rack.
"I don't remember you doing many chores before your revolution, either," Canada said dryly.
There was a rumple of paper. "Anyway, here's your present. It's not much, but like, whatever, you probably just got me a hockey jersey again anyway. Where's New Zealand?"
"Thanks." A louder rustle. "He's in the attic. We've been moving furniture. Hey, New Zealand!"
There was a muffled thump from overhead. "What?"
"America's here! He says hi!"
"Hi, America!"
"Merry Christmas!" America shouted. "I got you a bridge!"
"What do I need a bridge for?" Another thump, and a scuffle of cardboard boxes.
"You were telling me you wanted one!"
"Oh, that! Right! Thanks!"
"No problem!"
"Some of us are tryin' to have a durry in peace, here!" Australia shouted in.
England slapped his dishtowel down on the counter and stuck his head through the swinging door to the living room. "You know, an attempt to keep this place from turning into a zoo would mean more to me than any gift I've received today."
"England!" America beamed and pushed his heap of boxes into his brother's arms. Canada blinked and summarily dumped them on the couch. America strode forward and dragged England through the swinging door and into a hug. "Merry Christmas!"
England hugged him back, even though his sleeves were soaked through the instant they touched America's coat. "Merry Christmas," he managed. America's arms pressed into his ribcage. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm good! You know. I'm great. Commies are fuckers, but what else is new, right?" America pulled away and retreated to the entrance hall, and started tugging off mittens and boots and stripping his coat onto a peg. "God, the war was supposed to be over back in, what, back in October, when we took Pyongyang. Isn't it a rule that when you take the enemy's capital, they're supposed to give up?"
"That would make war a much simpler thing," England replied. He watched America drip rainwater all over the wood floor. The hours-old fire leapt in the grate and a soft glow caught over the droplets.
"Jesus, China's been such a, I don't even know, such a swinging dick ever since Russia told him he was the prettiest girl in school--" America jerked his shirt back down as he rucked his sweater over his head. His glasses caught on the collar, and there were a few seconds where America was an unruly, consternated lump topped by a spray of yellow hair as he struggled to recover them. "And don't get me started on Russia--"
"I'm going back upstairs," Canada said. He swiped America's glasses out of the tangle and stuck them in the other nation’s pocket as he passed him.
America freed himself from his pullover and blinked, flushed. "Thanks," he started, and flicked his glasses back on as he slung his sweater up next to his coat.
England made an open-handed gesture into the kitchen before returning to it himself. "Something to drink?"
"Yeah, thanks." America hefted one of the gifts on the couch and followed him in.
England turned the heat up under the kettle. "Russia has been giving the UN forces hell in the air," he said, and produced a box of tea leaves from a drawer.
"Oh, you meant tea." America ruffled his hair back into place and set his gift on the counter island with a thunk. It wasn't even a box, so much as a knot of wrapping paper bound into submission with spools of ribbon. "No thanks on the tea. Yeah, and I love how he seems to think that if he sneaks his planes in a few miles away from the front line, we like, won't even notice."
England chuffed, and took a neatly-wrapped parcel from next to the stove and handed it to America. "If you open your gift now, tea might not be necessary." Tea was always necessary, in his opinion, but a bottle of three-year-old Asbach Uralt brandy wasn't too shabby as a replacement.
America dropped down at the kitchen table. He slit his gift open along the seams, popping the tape with a series of bright cracks. "It's a total cause for war, what's the fancy Latin way of saying that? There's a fancy way of saying what I mean--oh, hey, nice! Thank you! I'll save this for when we finally kick China back out of the Korean Peninsula. That'll be worth nice brandy."
“Casus belli,” England murmured, and took up his gift, began working at the heavy mess of wrapping paper. It was a bit like disarming a bomb: pull a ribbon up, and the whole thing tightened. Cut one open and, well, it might not be worth the risk.
Eventually he slid a paring knife out of the block and sliced the lump open from stem to stern. Inside was a large chunk of concrete, set onto a sleek wooden mount. England frowned, turned the thing in his hand. "A rock."
America rolled his eyes. "Look at it." He picked a shortbread biscuit off the little plate in the middle of the table and nibbled at it.
England obliged him; tipped it towards the light. A little bronze tag was screwed just below the concrete: June 6th, 1944. Something went quiet in his chest. He looked up at America. "The Normandy landing?"
"Yeah!" America wiped crumbs off his lower lip with the back of his hand, and England suppressed the urge to force a napkin on him. "It's a chunk out of one of the German bunkers, from their defensive positions? The ones we blew the shit out of. I saved it! I figured you might want it, 'cause it was the first, you know, the first big military thing we did together, and that was kind of, like..." he trailed off, looked at nothing for a few seconds. Then, brightly, "Plus, it'll always remind you of the last time you invaded France!"
"He was under German occupation at the time," England said absently. He set his gift on the counter, and...was actually rather touched.
"Yeah, but you don't have to think of it that way." America grinned at him.
The tea kettle shrieked, and steam spiraled up to the ceiling. England attended it. "I suppose not," he smiled.
"Hey, I know you've been trying to get in touch with me since like, October. Sorry. I wasn't trying to brush you off or anything, I've just been busy with the, you know--" America took another biscuit.
He'd very nearly forgotten about that. England filled a tea ball with Earl Grey and poured the hot water. "I'd wanted to ask about your newest National Security Council report." He eased the tea ball in slowly, watched it bob at the surface. "You're being very...generous with your military."
"Well, I've gotta be, you know? There's a war on." America started building a house out of shortbread.
"Indeed there is," England replied. He stared out at the rain. "There wasn't, however, when it was proposed."
America paused. "Well..." one of the biscuit walls collapsed in. He caught it. "There might've been," he offered weakly. "I mean. Kinda the whole point of the report is that Russia's a warmongering dickbag, and he's gonna start stirring shit all over the place, and if I don't watch out for that, communism's gonna get everywhere, like mold or something...and look, I mean, Korea! It's true!"
England dropped the tea ball in the sink, wrapped his fingers around the handle of his mug, and moved across to the kitchen table. He sank down into the chair across from America and eyed the tower of biscuits. "And so you want to build up your military in case you have to go to war with him. And yet you've said that this is a war of ideologies."
"They're ideological bullets?" America suggested.
England frowned. "In that case, you could say that Russia is flying ideological planes over North Korea."
"Yeah, and I'm gonna ideologically kick his ass for it...one of these days," America added, and his eyes dropped back down to his construction project.
"'One of these days?'" England echoed. America's fingers snapped a biscuit in half, and he used the sharp ends to buttress a sagging corner of the tower. "Do you expect a confrontation in the near future?" Russia had been practically motionless these past few years. He was in Korea, true enough, but England imagined that had been more the product of China's arm-twisting than any real desire for war.
"Well hopefully not before I can build my military up," America muttered, and started assembling an outbuilding. "But you know what he's like these days. What he's after. He'll make a move eventually."
England watched him for a few moments, didn't say anything. America's tone hadn't changed, but the timbre of his voice had lowered. England took a sip of his tea. It burned the roof of his mouth. Finally, "He'll move more quickly if he sees you as a threat. Pouring money into your military isn't going to do anything to diffuse the situation. It will only make him want to defend himself." He sucked in a sharp breath, cooled his mouth. "This is...an unnecessary escalation."
America looked up sharply. "It's totally necessary. Look, England, Russia's not gonna back down no matter what I do. He wants to impose his authority over the whole rest of the world. And I'm--you know. I'm the only one who can really stand up to him anymore. If I'm not ready to fight him, who could be?"
"If you fight him, no one can win," England said flatly. He listened to the rain sleeting down onto the roof.
"What would you rather I do?" America's volume crept up, not much; England was sure he wasn't aware of it. "When he comes for you--you want me to just let him have you?"
"I would rather know your motivations." England sat forward, rested his fingertips on the rim of his mug. "You and Russia have a...history, and if this is personal, then the extent of your emotional involvement with him has the potential to make you careless, or unreliable--"
"Don't bring up my history with Russia." America's fingertips curled against the tablecloth, and something prickled in his voice, something too-hot and steel. "It's over. It's done. It's got nothing to do with this."
England had tensed; he wasn't sure when. He forced himself to relax. "Then you must understand how unwise it is to antagonize him. If he were the one developing his weapons, his armies, wouldn't you be tempted to launch a preemptive strike?"
America tugged a piece of shortbread out of his tower wall and chewed on it. "If I build up enough, he won't have the option of launching a preemptive strike."
"Why not?" England's eyes narrowed.
"Because if he does I'll kill him." There was no smile in America's voice, in his eyes. He sat straight, alert, shoulders square. "It won't matter if he invades. If I get enough bombs, I can kill him whenever I want."
England slowly set down his mug. Another sheet of rain fell across the windowpane. "And what if he decides to kill you first?" He tried to keep his words even.
"It doesn't matter." America popped the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and wiped away the crumbs with his thumb. "Even if he launched his nukes, I'd have a few hours' notice to send up mine."
"And what--?" England cut himself off.
What are the rest of us supposed to do? He knew the answer. They were supposed to fall in.
He swallowed, and the roof of his mouth ached where he'd burned himself.
"You gotta understand, England--" America leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded together, earnest. "This isn't like other wars. War is changing, okay? It took me a while to get my head around it, but I've got it now. It's changing. This isn't about--" he twirled his finger, pointing down at the tabletop. "Conquest, or resources. I don't care about Russia's land, and as far as I know, he doesn't care about mine. This is about our way of life. Yours and mine, and our allies'. This is about--this is about freedom, and the rule of law, against slavery under the Kremlin."
The tempo of America's voice had changed, or filled, somehow; he was orating. England felt strangely aware of his own breath, his posture, the position of his hands. He remained silent.
"So if he tries to fight me, I'll kill him. I don't need Russia to surrender. I don't give a fuck if he surrenders. Surrendering just proves that I'm stronger than him. The only thing that matters is if Russia admits that I'm right."
England stared at him. "And if he doesn't?"
America shrugged and sat back in his chair, stretched his arms out on the table. "If he doesn't, and he stays behind his own fucking borders, and sticks to oppressing his own fucking people...I'll try to bring him down from the inside. He's doing the same to me, you know? And if he tries to spread his influence into more shitslice, agrarian, backwards nations like China--fucking China--" he snarled, sudden, half to himself.
England eased up a little straighter.
A dark, tense moment passed before America spun a wild beam up at England. "Then hey, those shitslice little countries are gonna have a new best friend in the US of A. I want him alone, England, I want him completely fucking alone, or else I swear to God..." America slashed his hand across his throat.
"He could kill you, you know." It was quiet; England did not expect it to have any effect.
"Then I'll kill him back." America's smile trembled wider. His expression was so open: full of sky. "It's not like I'm gonna go for him first, God. He'll be the one to make the first move. Wait and see. He's just looking for his chance. He'd love to see me dead. He hates me, you know that?" Smiling, smiling, smiling... "I don't hate Russia. I don't. I think he's wrong, but I don't hate him. I'll kill him, though. If I need to. To defend myself. To defend us, England." That expression was radiant. America was glowing. "Because the world needs defending from that lying, cold-hearted son of a bitch."
England sat very still. He looked at America's fingers, still poised at the side of his throat, and felt dimly why he said it as he murmured, "Are you certain that Russia hates you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. What kind of a question is that?" America canted his head, dropped his hands down and folded together on the lip of the table.
"Early this year--in February--I went to collect you from Russia's house; do you remember? You ducked me at the bar somehow, and I spent the evening trying to track you down." He took a sip of tepid tea, stalled. Why--why was he saying this? "When I finally found you, you were in front of Russia's house, and you were--in his arms. He wasn't supporting you, or fending you off. He was holding you. You were holding each other. It was only when he noticed my headlights that he shoved you to the ground..."
America cooled, darkened, very suddenly, like a cloud had crossed in front of the sun. "That doesn't sound right. I don't remember that. That never happened."
"Yes, it did. You kept going on about him as we drove home. How you could fight him, and how he hadn't...felt as strong as he used to..."
America's fingers curled tighter together. "Yeah, okay, maybe I went to his place, and maybe we fought, but you're wrong about--he'd never--you must've seen something else. That never happened."
"America," he snapped, "I know what I saw."
America stood, sharp; his chair skittered away from the table and his hip bumped the edge. The biscuit tower toppled in a little shower of crumbs. "England. Take it back. I mean it."
England glared at him. "This is ridiculous. How can you expect me to deny the evidence of my own eyes--"
America's hand slammed down on the edge of the table. The platter jumped. That radiance had returned, sharper, and it was all in his eyes. Somehow, horribly, the very corner of his mouth drifted up.
There was a awful, leaden pause.
England didn't quail under that gaze, but he wanted to. The room felt too small all of a sudden, the ceiling too low, the air too close. Trapped. "Fine," he snarled. "It never happened."
America smiled.
"England!"
There was a creak and a thud from the living room, and Canada shoved through the swinging door. He propped it open with his hip, brushed a layer of dust out of his hair. "We're done with the upstairs, and I--" He paused, looked from England's face to America's, then back again. "What's...going on?"
America turned on his heel, all ease and loose shoulders. "Nothing! Just kinda, you know...politics."
Canada sighed. "Can't you two give it a rest on Christmas?"
"Sorry. You're right. Subject's totally dropped." America dusted biscuit crumbs off his pant leg.
It was as if all the tension that had been coiled up in America's body had been expelled into the air between the three of them. England's throat tightened.
Canada was looking at him, blue eyes suspicious. "England?" He asked again.
England stirred, finally let himself tear his gaze away from America. "It's nothing," he said. "Everything is fine."
America craned his neck to look out the window. "Man, why do you always make Australia do the crappy outside jobs? I mean, you know, the storm drain...Galipoli...It's not like it's his fault he's a penal colony. Actually, it's your fault he was a penal colony. Shouldn't somebody tell him to come inside in this weather?" He strode back into the living room.
England sighed and got to his feet. He made his way over to the sink, dumped the remainder of his tea down the drain, and then stood with his hands braced on the lip of the enamel, his fist and second fingers hooked into the handle of the mug. Outside, the rain poured down harder.
Canada came up beside him, tried to catch his eyes. "Are you sure--?"
"Did you misunderstand me?" England's voice cracked like a whip. "I said everything was fine."
Canada's lips tightened into a thin line--it was one of England's own expressions, he recognized it--before he turned and left, the kitchen door swinging behind him.
England listened to the door creak against the jamb, quickly at first, then slower...slower...He dropped his mug into the sink and wiped his hands on his trousers.
Take it back. Like a child.
He tried to put it out of his mind. They were allies, after all. And in any case, there was nothing on Earth that could be done about it; not by anyone, God save them, and certainly not by him.
He would not let himself wonder what America might have done if he had refused.
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I HOPE YOU LIKE FOOTNOTES
-- "I have spent two weeks in the shittiest port town you have ever seen..." That would be Hungnam, North Korea, where the last of the UN forces were trapped from December 11th to the 24th during their retreat from the Chinese counteroffensive, at the culmination of the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. The American forces razed the port to the ground following their evacuation.
-- Durry: Australian slang for 'cigarette.'
-- "The war was supposed to be over back in October..." Forces from the United States and the Republic of Korea captured Pyongyang on October 19th. The same day, Mao authorized the 'War To Resist America And Aid Korea.' Pyongyang was retaken by Chinese forces on December 5th.
-- Casus belli: Literally, 'case for war.' The Soviet Union reluctantly assisted the Chinese war effort, at Mao's insistence. Its assistance was limited to air support no closer than 60 miles from the battlefront (to give Soviet pilots experience against against the Western air forces, for some future conflict that might, from the point of view of the USSR, actually matter). They flew MiG-15s (camouflaged as PRC Air Force), which at the time were the most advanced fighters in the world. This direct intervention was a casus belli which the UN deliberately ignored in order to preserve the wider peace.
-- National Security Council Report 68 (commonly abbreviated as NSC-68) was the craziest fucking thing you can imagine. It painted the conflict between the United States and the USSR in apocalyptic tones, and called for military expenditures to be tripled, during peacetime, to attain materiel superiority over the Soviet Union. It's full of language like "[A war between] freedom under a government of laws, and slavery under the grim oligarchy of the Kremlin," (since when does America even know words like 'oligarchy?') and accused the Soviet Union of being "unlike previous aspirants to hegemony... animated by a new fanatic faith, antithetical to our own." Its predictions were wrong in almost every respect. Craziest of all? This document became the blueprint for US foreign policy during the Cold War. It's also the thing that called for proxy wars, containment, and massive nuclear buildup. So...yeah.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.