50 - My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 1]
Title: My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 1]
Characters: Russia, America, John F. Kennedy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - America discovers Russia's missile bases in Cuba, and confronts him in hopes of preventing a nuclear war.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
The White House. October 16, 1962.
"These can't be real."
America stared down at the stack of glossy and oversized photos. Every few seconds he shuffled fast to reach a new one. Gas lines--he could make out gas lines. Tents, fresh gravel roads, water mains; trucks--food trucks, aid trucks. Unmarked trucks. Equipment: cranes, diggers, and signs of construction. Raised structures, black spindly things on stalks. Plumes of dust caught by the camera from cleared rocks.
Construction.
John F. Kennedy watched him from across his desk. America put the photos down.
"These can't be real," he repeated.
"They came in this morning," Kennedy said. He spun a pen between his fingers: one of his habits, too much energy. Nerves. "We sent a Lockheed to check it out."
Another U-2 plane. Maybe he should just stop sending out U-2 planes, nothing but bullshit ever came out of it--
America turned away from the President's desk, paced to the far wall; stared at the carpet between his feet for a few seconds; then stalked back and pressed both hands flat to Kennedy's desk. Kennedy raised an eyebrow at him. "He told me he wouldn't do this," America insisted. "He promised."
There was a flicker--a dry twitch--at the corner of President Kennedy's mouth. His eyes went a little harder. "You told me a little about your…personal commitment to diplomacy with the Soviet Union…"
Irony that leaden would sink in mud.
America shook his head. "He promised me over and over again. He promised last week."
"And yet the fact is, Jones--"
"Because there were all those reports coming in from Miami, right, and I was like, 'hey Russia, do I have anything to worry about?' and he was like, 'you've got nothing to worry about, America--"
"--The fact is," Kennedy cut him off. His weight shifted over his left elbow on his desk. "The Soviet Union has exported warheads to Cuba."
"No," America said.
"He's constructing missile launchers in Cuba."
"He promised," America shoved off the desk, scrubbed a hand through his hair, curled the other hand against the back of his neck. An ugly, pale blue flutter kicked to life at the bottom of his throat. "That son of a bitch, he promised."
Kennedy leaned back in his chair. He laced his hands across his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. "He probably thinks we won't respond." A beat. "Could be because you're such--close, ah--"
"Fuck!" Something was rising, buzzing, orange and hot behind America's eyes--
The President looked at him and scratched the bridge of his nose.
"No," America managed, trying to make his voice go steady, not easy, this was--this hit right at that stiff spot under his heart, like a bad leg that had never healed right, some broken bone in how he felt things that had never gotten set right since that day in the White House in 1933, made him buckle-- "No, he wouldn't do that to me."
That same low-light, too-smart look: Kennedy was good at that look. "Wouldn't expect you to look the other way? For friendship?"
"He wouldn't take advantage of me like that. Not about the bomb," America snarled.
A hot, ugly silence hung in the air between them.
Kennedy sat up again. "Well, the missiles are in Cuba."
"How many?" America's voice cracked. "Long range or short range? Do we know yet? Have we heard from Cuba? This can't be--Cuba can't want this; this is stupid, why would Cuba want this…"
Kennedy ran a fingertip along the edge of the stack of photos. "Four sites…both intermediate and long range, from what our boys tell me…could be about forty warheads."
"Forty." America's fingers cramped in the knees of his slacks. "Forty's…forty, I mean…h-how much does that change things?" Where's McNamara? America suddenly couldn't remember how many nuclear warheads he had. A number like that, that was like his birthday or something these days, that was supposed to be at his fingertips, but all of a sudden it was like…he was thinking through molasses, or something, he didn't….
"That's not important." Kennedy braced his forehead on the side of his fist. "We've got five thousand warheads, the Soviets've got about three hundred. Three-forty, now. So what." A forced laugh. "You know it's not about--"
"--Whether it actually changes the balance," America finished. He wanted a drink. He really, really wanted a whole bottle of the strongest whatever the President had, and he could sit right here and drink it until the pictures went away-- "It's about whether it looks like it changes the balance. To--to everybody else."
"That's right," Kennedy confirmed.
"Fuck."
"And I promised, just last month, that if nuclear weapons were placed in Cuba--"
"Yeah." America sank into one of the chairs across from Kennedy's desk. "We've gotta do something."
"I'm gonna call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs--"
"Oh, not those fuckers--" America sat up straight and waved his hands, stop stop stop stop stop. "They're just gonna say that we've got to invade Cuba, and if we invade Cuba then--"
"--The Soviets are gonna invade West Berlin," Kennedy nodded and crossed his leg over his lap, tugged at the back of his shoe. "And then--"
"--And then nukes start flying around--"
"We wanna avoid that," Kennedy said dryly. And then, sober, "But we've got to keep our promises."
Fucking Russia. Fucking Russia and his fucking promises, every God damned time--
Kennedy leaned forward on his desk and laced his fingers together. "Do you think your friend would back down, crate up those missiles and take'em home, if he knew we were prepared to go to war over them?"
America swallowed. His tongue felt too thick. It was hard to breathe.
He said, "I think so, sir."
"Good--" Kennedy nodded, and rose from his chair. He went to the liquor cabinet. America followed his hands with a kind of cracked-glass desperation as the President fixed two martinis. "We'll bring that up with the Joint Chiefs. Invading Cuba is our last resort, Jones. Those missiles have got to go--but we don't want a war."
"We don't want a war," America echoed. He thought of Russia--
(His beautiful Russia--)
God, if he ever had to go to war with him, America would--he would--
Four sites. And Russia had promised.
"But if it turns out that there's no other way to maintain the balance of power--" Kennedy went on.
"Just let me talk to him first," America sat up, begged, and clutched at his glass as Kennedy placed it in his hand. "Just--for the love of God, let me talk to him."
Kennedy met his gaze, and gave a firm nod. "Get him to back down. Because we won't."
---
International waters. October 22.
America didn't know how he knew to stop that ship--that ship, that ship, he had dropped his binoculars on the deck and bolted for the USS Essex's command center, jabbing his finger towards a point distant on the ocean and demanding that they stop that ship right there--just one of a stream of vessels that had gone in and out of Cuban waters over the last few days--
He fixed his cuffs and trotted down the stairs towards the deck where they had corralled the ship's crew, the heels of his boots ringing dully on bolted metal.
He found a clumped-up squadron of sullen faces. The Russian sailors been crammed in there a couple hours ago, waiting while the Essex crew searched their ship for "quarantined materials." That was what they were calling them. They weren't allowed to call it a "blockade" because blockades were an act of war and this was just a quarantine--okay--just a quarantine, even though "blockade" had happier connotations for America, because that reminded him of his blockade running days, but in this case he's the one enforcing a blockade, so maybe blockade running wasn't the best association after all--
He banged his hand against the wall, drawing all eyes. "Braginsky," he shouted. "Come with me. Now."
The naval officer's uniforms were so blue they were nearly black, and Russia's features were too pale, too hard above his high collar. He took a step from within the cluster of men and regarded America with flat eyes. A pause--and then he followed him across the deck.
They didn't say a word as they retreated up, up, through the intestines of the ship. America banged his shoulder against the wall a couple times and against sailors scurrying past a couple times, but he never turned around and looked at Russia. He didn't turn around until they reached the captain's cabin, and he waited until Russia was inside and the door behind him before he shoved Russia back against the wall, hissing "What are you doing. What are you doing?"
Russia was soft under America's hands; not pliant, but...unconcerned. He cricked his neck an inch, stared down into America's face. "I am having my ship arbitrarily searched. What are you doing?"
"It's a quarantine," America said. He cramped his fingers in the shoulders of Russia's dark blue jacket. "The missiles, God damn it. You said--you swore to me--"
"Forty missiles," Russia dismissed. He didn't try to push America off him. "A fraction of what you have. Don't you trust me?" An ugly little curl of a smile.
"I did trust you." America's jaw set. He could feel the ship vibrating under the soles of his shoes, all the way up to his teeth. "When you told me you'd never put me in this position."
Sea-bright sunlight spilled through the clean plate glass of the windows, caught in the nap of the rug. Russia's eyes drifted along its path for a few moments. "I have to protect my interests, America, promises or no promises. You understand that."
America shook his head, kept shaking it, his eyes wide and fixed on Russia's. "This is--Jesus Christ, Russia--I mean, this is in violation of, what...the Rio Pact of 1947--and the Joint Resolution of my 88th Congress--and the Charter of the United Nations, you remember signing that one, right?--And the Monroe Doctrine, I don't know if you remember the Monroe Doctrine, I remember the Monroe Doctrine--and, just while I'm at it, when I fucking publically told you not to back in September. Twice. --What the fuck do you expect me to do about this? Nothing?"
"Yes, I signed things, hundreds of things, it feels like...But you have to remember, my word has never been especially good for anything. Do you honestly expect me to just stand by and let you trample across the entire hemisphere?" Russia kept holding America's gaze. "I will not allow you to invade Cuba."
America gaped at him. "Is that what this is about? The Bay of fucking Pigs? --That was like, the worst invasion of my entire life! That one doesn't even count! --I wasn't even thinking about taking another shot at Cuba until I saw the photos of your fucking missiles!"
"Fory missiles, America. They're hardly more of a threat than the thousands you have at your fingertips." Russia shifted against the wall; America could feel his shoulder blades scrape higher across the polished wood. Making himself comfortable.
"That's not the point, and you know it!" America shoved away from him, folded his arms, and glared out the window. Light, light, too much light on the water. A hum started up between his ears. "You're--if I let you have this, that, that makes me look weak; in front of you, in front of my allies..." His jaw clenched, tighter, tighter, and he took a deep breath, and another deep breath... "You think I'll just let you have this one, don't you."
Russia pushed forward onto the balls of his feet and tugged his jacket straight. Creases fanned out in the fabric near his shoulders, crunched out of shape by America's fingers. Russia tried to smooth them out. "Most likely. You don't know how to fight for your place in the world. You've never had to."
America just...stared at him. He couldn't find his voice.
It was so--it was such an unfair thing to say--so untrue--so insulting--His mouth opened for a second, like it was waiting for his brain to fill it with an explosion of words, but America felt all his words blur and turn into silence, like some chalkboard in his head that was covered with annotations and this is what you say when you're angry had been doused by a bucket of water.
The silence stretched out between them for at least half a minute. Maybe more. A long time, in a silence that stunned and ugly.
"You don't think I'll use the bombs," he finally said, quiet with amazement. "You really don't."
Russia's collar shifted as he swallowed. It was a looking-for-something-to-say kind of swallow, a bid for time, even if his eyes stayed flat. "Would you?"
Another hot, slow crawl of seconds. America felt like he could hear the ship engine in the backs of his eyes.
"Yeah," he said.
The response came immediately: "No, you wouldn't." Something toxic seeped into Russia's tone. "Not if you think you can force me to back down. Again."
America's breath felt too short and too dark in his lungs. He wasn't getting enough air. But for some reason, he also couldn't breathe any deeper. He heard himself say, "I put the warheads earmarked for the first strike against you on the planes. When I went to DEFCON 2. Did you hear about that? ...I didn't encode it because I wanted you to hear."
"I heard." Russia's footsteps thumped dense on the carpet as he crossed to America. He moved stiff, ungentle. "You want me on my knees." Russia gazed down at him, heavy and impassive. "Always. I won't give you that. Not this time."
America drew his sidearm. The air went click. He held Russia's eyes and didn't say anything.
Russia's hand crept instinctively to his own hip, halted halfway there. There was no holster, no weapon; American's men had disarmed the officers. His gaze shifted slowly back up to America's.
The Colt slid in between them. America held it with both hands, braced, three inches from Russia's heart. "You really want to stake our lives on me being too spineless to back up my threats?" His voice was quiet, thready.
"I don't want to. But I will." Russia shifted his weight, so slight, in towards the bullet. "You don't have the stomach for this."
America had always thought that he'd feel angry, if it came to this. But he didn't. He felt cold and sick. "Beautiful, I don't want this war," he said softly. He adjusted his grip on the gun; a fraction of an inch, the muzzle drifted, up and down. "But I'm not gonna let you use me not wanting this war as an excuse to do whatever the hell you feel like." He watched Russia's eyes: Russia wasn't afraid, but that, that, wasn't what America was looking for. He just--wanted to look at him, as deep as he could, since maybe this was--maybe this would be the--(his stomach pitched)-- "I swear to God, if you don't get those missiles out of Cuba, I'll shoot you."
Russia sighed, long and cool and steady. He squinted at America through the sunlight in the windows. "No," he murmured. "You won't."
America lowered his gun and turned away.
But they both knew the real gun was being loaded onto planes and flown across the Pacific right now.
"I really hope you change your mind," America said, leaden. He opened the door. "Get your ship out of here. You weren't stupid enough to be on a ship with quarantined materials, were you?"
"No, I wasn't." Russia rubbed his fingertips along the edge of his collar. "I had a feeling you might find me."
America nodded, sucked in a hard breath. "Come on, I'll bring you back to your men."
---
America stormed into the Oval Office. Kennedy looked at him, stood up, and tossed down his paperwork. His tie was half-loose. "What did he say?"
America grit his teeth and shook his head.
The President watched him for a passage of seconds, then drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed to the left on nothing. "He's ready to risk a war over this?"
America dropped into one of the dark leather chairs, all creaking and stiff underneath his legs. He ground out, "He doesn't think I've got the guts to make it into a war."
"But you do," Kennedy informed him.
America looked up: met the President's eyes. The President looked back, calm and clear.
"Yeah," America said softly. "I do."
+++
--In September 1962, Khrushchev and Cuban leader Fidel Castro agreed to place strategic nuclear missiles secretly in Cuba. Like Castro, Khrushchev felt that a U.S. invasion of Cuba was imminent, and that to lose Cuba would harm to the communist cause, especially in Latin America. He said he wanted to confront the Americans "with more than words...the logical answer was missiles." The Soviet leadership believed that Kennedy would avoid confrontation and accept the missiles as a fait accompli, based on Kennedy's perceived lack of confidence during the Bay of Pigs invasion.
--Kennedy first saw the photographs of the Soviet construction efforts on October 16th. Unanimously, the US Joint Chiefs of Staff agreed that a full-scale attack and invasion of Cuba was the only way to ensure that the missiles were removed, and that the Soviets would not try to covertly replace them. They agreed that the Soviets would not act to stop the U.S. from conquering Cuba. Kennedy was skeptical, saying: "They, no more than we, can let these things go by without doing something. They can't, after all their statements, permit us to take out their missiles, kill a lot of Russians, and then do nothing. If they don't take action in Cuba, they certainly will in Berlin."
--Robert McNamara was the US Secretary of Defense. He insisted that 40 missiles in Cuba would not greatly affect the strategic balance of power. He agreed, however, that they might greatly affect the political balance of power, if America were seen to acquiesce to the presense of the Soviet silos.
--Kennedy ordered a quarantine to be placed around Cuba to prevent any further imports of offensive weapons on October 22nd. The Soviets styled this announcement as piracy, and ordered their ships to ignore it. At this point, the crisis was ostensibly at a stalemate. The USSR had shown no indication that they would back down, and had made several comments to the contrary. The U.S. had no reason to believe otherwise, and was in the early stages of preparing for an invasion, along with a nuclear strike on the Soviet Union in case it responded militarily--which was assumed.
+++
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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: Russia, America, John F. Kennedy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - America discovers Russia's missile bases in Cuba, and confronts him in hopes of preventing a nuclear war.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
The White House. October 16, 1962.
"These can't be real."
America stared down at the stack of glossy and oversized photos. Every few seconds he shuffled fast to reach a new one. Gas lines--he could make out gas lines. Tents, fresh gravel roads, water mains; trucks--food trucks, aid trucks. Unmarked trucks. Equipment: cranes, diggers, and signs of construction. Raised structures, black spindly things on stalks. Plumes of dust caught by the camera from cleared rocks.
Construction.
John F. Kennedy watched him from across his desk. America put the photos down.
"These can't be real," he repeated.
"They came in this morning," Kennedy said. He spun a pen between his fingers: one of his habits, too much energy. Nerves. "We sent a Lockheed to check it out."
Another U-2 plane. Maybe he should just stop sending out U-2 planes, nothing but bullshit ever came out of it--
America turned away from the President's desk, paced to the far wall; stared at the carpet between his feet for a few seconds; then stalked back and pressed both hands flat to Kennedy's desk. Kennedy raised an eyebrow at him. "He told me he wouldn't do this," America insisted. "He promised."
There was a flicker--a dry twitch--at the corner of President Kennedy's mouth. His eyes went a little harder. "You told me a little about your…personal commitment to diplomacy with the Soviet Union…"
Irony that leaden would sink in mud.
America shook his head. "He promised me over and over again. He promised last week."
"And yet the fact is, Jones--"
"Because there were all those reports coming in from Miami, right, and I was like, 'hey Russia, do I have anything to worry about?' and he was like, 'you've got nothing to worry about, America--"
"--The fact is," Kennedy cut him off. His weight shifted over his left elbow on his desk. "The Soviet Union has exported warheads to Cuba."
"No," America said.
"He's constructing missile launchers in Cuba."
"He promised," America shoved off the desk, scrubbed a hand through his hair, curled the other hand against the back of his neck. An ugly, pale blue flutter kicked to life at the bottom of his throat. "That son of a bitch, he promised."
Kennedy leaned back in his chair. He laced his hands across his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. "He probably thinks we won't respond." A beat. "Could be because you're such--close, ah--"
"Fuck!" Something was rising, buzzing, orange and hot behind America's eyes--
The President looked at him and scratched the bridge of his nose.
"No," America managed, trying to make his voice go steady, not easy, this was--this hit right at that stiff spot under his heart, like a bad leg that had never healed right, some broken bone in how he felt things that had never gotten set right since that day in the White House in 1933, made him buckle-- "No, he wouldn't do that to me."
That same low-light, too-smart look: Kennedy was good at that look. "Wouldn't expect you to look the other way? For friendship?"
"He wouldn't take advantage of me like that. Not about the bomb," America snarled.
A hot, ugly silence hung in the air between them.
Kennedy sat up again. "Well, the missiles are in Cuba."
"How many?" America's voice cracked. "Long range or short range? Do we know yet? Have we heard from Cuba? This can't be--Cuba can't want this; this is stupid, why would Cuba want this…"
Kennedy ran a fingertip along the edge of the stack of photos. "Four sites…both intermediate and long range, from what our boys tell me…could be about forty warheads."
"Forty." America's fingers cramped in the knees of his slacks. "Forty's…forty, I mean…h-how much does that change things?" Where's McNamara? America suddenly couldn't remember how many nuclear warheads he had. A number like that, that was like his birthday or something these days, that was supposed to be at his fingertips, but all of a sudden it was like…he was thinking through molasses, or something, he didn't….
"That's not important." Kennedy braced his forehead on the side of his fist. "We've got five thousand warheads, the Soviets've got about three hundred. Three-forty, now. So what." A forced laugh. "You know it's not about--"
"--Whether it actually changes the balance," America finished. He wanted a drink. He really, really wanted a whole bottle of the strongest whatever the President had, and he could sit right here and drink it until the pictures went away-- "It's about whether it looks like it changes the balance. To--to everybody else."
"That's right," Kennedy confirmed.
"Fuck."
"And I promised, just last month, that if nuclear weapons were placed in Cuba--"
"Yeah." America sank into one of the chairs across from Kennedy's desk. "We've gotta do something."
"I'm gonna call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs--"
"Oh, not those fuckers--" America sat up straight and waved his hands, stop stop stop stop stop. "They're just gonna say that we've got to invade Cuba, and if we invade Cuba then--"
"--The Soviets are gonna invade West Berlin," Kennedy nodded and crossed his leg over his lap, tugged at the back of his shoe. "And then--"
"--And then nukes start flying around--"
"We wanna avoid that," Kennedy said dryly. And then, sober, "But we've got to keep our promises."
Fucking Russia. Fucking Russia and his fucking promises, every God damned time--
Kennedy leaned forward on his desk and laced his fingers together. "Do you think your friend would back down, crate up those missiles and take'em home, if he knew we were prepared to go to war over them?"
America swallowed. His tongue felt too thick. It was hard to breathe.
He said, "I think so, sir."
"Good--" Kennedy nodded, and rose from his chair. He went to the liquor cabinet. America followed his hands with a kind of cracked-glass desperation as the President fixed two martinis. "We'll bring that up with the Joint Chiefs. Invading Cuba is our last resort, Jones. Those missiles have got to go--but we don't want a war."
"We don't want a war," America echoed. He thought of Russia--
(His beautiful Russia--)
God, if he ever had to go to war with him, America would--he would--
Four sites. And Russia had promised.
"But if it turns out that there's no other way to maintain the balance of power--" Kennedy went on.
"Just let me talk to him first," America sat up, begged, and clutched at his glass as Kennedy placed it in his hand. "Just--for the love of God, let me talk to him."
Kennedy met his gaze, and gave a firm nod. "Get him to back down. Because we won't."
---
International waters. October 22.
America didn't know how he knew to stop that ship--that ship, that ship, he had dropped his binoculars on the deck and bolted for the USS Essex's command center, jabbing his finger towards a point distant on the ocean and demanding that they stop that ship right there--just one of a stream of vessels that had gone in and out of Cuban waters over the last few days--
He fixed his cuffs and trotted down the stairs towards the deck where they had corralled the ship's crew, the heels of his boots ringing dully on bolted metal.
He found a clumped-up squadron of sullen faces. The Russian sailors been crammed in there a couple hours ago, waiting while the Essex crew searched their ship for "quarantined materials." That was what they were calling them. They weren't allowed to call it a "blockade" because blockades were an act of war and this was just a quarantine--okay--just a quarantine, even though "blockade" had happier connotations for America, because that reminded him of his blockade running days, but in this case he's the one enforcing a blockade, so maybe blockade running wasn't the best association after all--
He banged his hand against the wall, drawing all eyes. "Braginsky," he shouted. "Come with me. Now."
The naval officer's uniforms were so blue they were nearly black, and Russia's features were too pale, too hard above his high collar. He took a step from within the cluster of men and regarded America with flat eyes. A pause--and then he followed him across the deck.
They didn't say a word as they retreated up, up, through the intestines of the ship. America banged his shoulder against the wall a couple times and against sailors scurrying past a couple times, but he never turned around and looked at Russia. He didn't turn around until they reached the captain's cabin, and he waited until Russia was inside and the door behind him before he shoved Russia back against the wall, hissing "What are you doing. What are you doing?"
Russia was soft under America's hands; not pliant, but...unconcerned. He cricked his neck an inch, stared down into America's face. "I am having my ship arbitrarily searched. What are you doing?"
"It's a quarantine," America said. He cramped his fingers in the shoulders of Russia's dark blue jacket. "The missiles, God damn it. You said--you swore to me--"
"Forty missiles," Russia dismissed. He didn't try to push America off him. "A fraction of what you have. Don't you trust me?" An ugly little curl of a smile.
"I did trust you." America's jaw set. He could feel the ship vibrating under the soles of his shoes, all the way up to his teeth. "When you told me you'd never put me in this position."
Sea-bright sunlight spilled through the clean plate glass of the windows, caught in the nap of the rug. Russia's eyes drifted along its path for a few moments. "I have to protect my interests, America, promises or no promises. You understand that."
America shook his head, kept shaking it, his eyes wide and fixed on Russia's. "This is--Jesus Christ, Russia--I mean, this is in violation of, what...the Rio Pact of 1947--and the Joint Resolution of my 88th Congress--and the Charter of the United Nations, you remember signing that one, right?--And the Monroe Doctrine, I don't know if you remember the Monroe Doctrine, I remember the Monroe Doctrine--and, just while I'm at it, when I fucking publically told you not to back in September. Twice. --What the fuck do you expect me to do about this? Nothing?"
"Yes, I signed things, hundreds of things, it feels like...But you have to remember, my word has never been especially good for anything. Do you honestly expect me to just stand by and let you trample across the entire hemisphere?" Russia kept holding America's gaze. "I will not allow you to invade Cuba."
America gaped at him. "Is that what this is about? The Bay of fucking Pigs? --That was like, the worst invasion of my entire life! That one doesn't even count! --I wasn't even thinking about taking another shot at Cuba until I saw the photos of your fucking missiles!"
"Fory missiles, America. They're hardly more of a threat than the thousands you have at your fingertips." Russia shifted against the wall; America could feel his shoulder blades scrape higher across the polished wood. Making himself comfortable.
"That's not the point, and you know it!" America shoved away from him, folded his arms, and glared out the window. Light, light, too much light on the water. A hum started up between his ears. "You're--if I let you have this, that, that makes me look weak; in front of you, in front of my allies..." His jaw clenched, tighter, tighter, and he took a deep breath, and another deep breath... "You think I'll just let you have this one, don't you."
Russia pushed forward onto the balls of his feet and tugged his jacket straight. Creases fanned out in the fabric near his shoulders, crunched out of shape by America's fingers. Russia tried to smooth them out. "Most likely. You don't know how to fight for your place in the world. You've never had to."
America just...stared at him. He couldn't find his voice.
It was so--it was such an unfair thing to say--so untrue--so insulting--His mouth opened for a second, like it was waiting for his brain to fill it with an explosion of words, but America felt all his words blur and turn into silence, like some chalkboard in his head that was covered with annotations and this is what you say when you're angry had been doused by a bucket of water.
The silence stretched out between them for at least half a minute. Maybe more. A long time, in a silence that stunned and ugly.
"You don't think I'll use the bombs," he finally said, quiet with amazement. "You really don't."
Russia's collar shifted as he swallowed. It was a looking-for-something-to-say kind of swallow, a bid for time, even if his eyes stayed flat. "Would you?"
Another hot, slow crawl of seconds. America felt like he could hear the ship engine in the backs of his eyes.
"Yeah," he said.
The response came immediately: "No, you wouldn't." Something toxic seeped into Russia's tone. "Not if you think you can force me to back down. Again."
America's breath felt too short and too dark in his lungs. He wasn't getting enough air. But for some reason, he also couldn't breathe any deeper. He heard himself say, "I put the warheads earmarked for the first strike against you on the planes. When I went to DEFCON 2. Did you hear about that? ...I didn't encode it because I wanted you to hear."
"I heard." Russia's footsteps thumped dense on the carpet as he crossed to America. He moved stiff, ungentle. "You want me on my knees." Russia gazed down at him, heavy and impassive. "Always. I won't give you that. Not this time."
America drew his sidearm. The air went click. He held Russia's eyes and didn't say anything.
Russia's hand crept instinctively to his own hip, halted halfway there. There was no holster, no weapon; American's men had disarmed the officers. His gaze shifted slowly back up to America's.
The Colt slid in between them. America held it with both hands, braced, three inches from Russia's heart. "You really want to stake our lives on me being too spineless to back up my threats?" His voice was quiet, thready.
"I don't want to. But I will." Russia shifted his weight, so slight, in towards the bullet. "You don't have the stomach for this."
America had always thought that he'd feel angry, if it came to this. But he didn't. He felt cold and sick. "Beautiful, I don't want this war," he said softly. He adjusted his grip on the gun; a fraction of an inch, the muzzle drifted, up and down. "But I'm not gonna let you use me not wanting this war as an excuse to do whatever the hell you feel like." He watched Russia's eyes: Russia wasn't afraid, but that, that, wasn't what America was looking for. He just--wanted to look at him, as deep as he could, since maybe this was--maybe this would be the--(his stomach pitched)-- "I swear to God, if you don't get those missiles out of Cuba, I'll shoot you."
Russia sighed, long and cool and steady. He squinted at America through the sunlight in the windows. "No," he murmured. "You won't."
America lowered his gun and turned away.
But they both knew the real gun was being loaded onto planes and flown across the Pacific right now.
"I really hope you change your mind," America said, leaden. He opened the door. "Get your ship out of here. You weren't stupid enough to be on a ship with quarantined materials, were you?"
"No, I wasn't." Russia rubbed his fingertips along the edge of his collar. "I had a feeling you might find me."
America nodded, sucked in a hard breath. "Come on, I'll bring you back to your men."
---
America stormed into the Oval Office. Kennedy looked at him, stood up, and tossed down his paperwork. His tie was half-loose. "What did he say?"
America grit his teeth and shook his head.
The President watched him for a passage of seconds, then drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed to the left on nothing. "He's ready to risk a war over this?"
America dropped into one of the dark leather chairs, all creaking and stiff underneath his legs. He ground out, "He doesn't think I've got the guts to make it into a war."
"But you do," Kennedy informed him.
America looked up: met the President's eyes. The President looked back, calm and clear.
"Yeah," America said softly. "I do."
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--In September 1962, Khrushchev and Cuban leader Fidel Castro agreed to place strategic nuclear missiles secretly in Cuba. Like Castro, Khrushchev felt that a U.S. invasion of Cuba was imminent, and that to lose Cuba would harm to the communist cause, especially in Latin America. He said he wanted to confront the Americans "with more than words...the logical answer was missiles." The Soviet leadership believed that Kennedy would avoid confrontation and accept the missiles as a fait accompli, based on Kennedy's perceived lack of confidence during the Bay of Pigs invasion.
--Kennedy first saw the photographs of the Soviet construction efforts on October 16th. Unanimously, the US Joint Chiefs of Staff agreed that a full-scale attack and invasion of Cuba was the only way to ensure that the missiles were removed, and that the Soviets would not try to covertly replace them. They agreed that the Soviets would not act to stop the U.S. from conquering Cuba. Kennedy was skeptical, saying: "They, no more than we, can let these things go by without doing something. They can't, after all their statements, permit us to take out their missiles, kill a lot of Russians, and then do nothing. If they don't take action in Cuba, they certainly will in Berlin."
--Robert McNamara was the US Secretary of Defense. He insisted that 40 missiles in Cuba would not greatly affect the strategic balance of power. He agreed, however, that they might greatly affect the political balance of power, if America were seen to acquiesce to the presense of the Soviet silos.
--Kennedy ordered a quarantine to be placed around Cuba to prevent any further imports of offensive weapons on October 22nd. The Soviets styled this announcement as piracy, and ordered their ships to ignore it. At this point, the crisis was ostensibly at a stalemate. The USSR had shown no indication that they would back down, and had made several comments to the contrary. The U.S. had no reason to believe otherwise, and was in the early stages of preparing for an invasion, along with a nuclear strike on the Soviet Union in case it responded militarily--which was assumed.
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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.