1 - Discrepancies
Title: Discrepancies
Characters: Russia, America. Mentions of Catherine the Great.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1780 - An impressionable young America is not quite prepared for his first exposure to the Russian court.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
St. Petersburg, Russia. Spring, 1780.
It wouldn't be fair to say that America fled St. George's Hall. He looked more like someone who had just remembered that he had somewhere else to be, very far away, in not much time, but he wouldn't run because that would be rude and might cause a commotion. A hundred feet down the hallway he stopped all at once and leaned against the wall. He shut his eyes. His head hit the paneling with a soft thunk. He looked out of place against the opulence of the Winter Palace; badly tailored and entirely too flushed. Diplomacy alone couldn't be that nerve-wracking for a young country.
With a nudge of his hips, Russia pushed himself from a nearby alcove, the tails of his coat catching on the moulding.
America blinked his eyes open and looked around. "Oh, uh--" he started. Stopped. He tugged his jacket straight and hastily patted down his hair. "Uh, hi! I was just--I mean, I wasn't--am I bothering you? There was just, uh..." he scrubbed his forehead distractedly with the back of his hand.
"Bothering?" Russia strolled up next to him, head slightly to one side. "Certainly not."
"That's, uh, that's good." His fingers scrabbled to straighten his cravat. "I just wasn't sure if--"
"If what? If running out in the middle of a meeting was frowned upon, diplomatically speaking?"
America's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, I wasn't--I didn't mean to offend anybody--I just..." he blew out a sharp breath. "I, uh, I think there may have been a...a misunderstanding. Of some kind."
Russia watched America impassively. "Oh?" The boy kept fighting with his cravat, all nervous energy, and Russia suddenly wanted nothing more than to slap his hands away and do it himself. "What did Her Imperial Majesty have to say?"
America looked like he was going to be sick. "She, ahh." His voice wavered. He turned a bit pale and cast an uneasy glance back down the hallway, towards the throne room. "She was very...w-welcoming?"
The other nation arched an eyebrow. "This is strange, where you are from?" He leaned out past America, followed his gaze down the hall, and smirked. "And there is no one following you."
"Oh, thank the good Lord," America blurted. He sucked a breath through his teeth and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Uh, I mean--not that I meant--ahaha, of course there's no one following..."
The young nation gave up and leaned back against the wall again. He covered his face with his hands and groaned softly.
Had he ever been so jumpy when he was young? Russia shrugged and leaned back with him, arms crossed over his chest. "And why would someone be following you? You did not say something... foolish?"
America winced. "I, uh, I don't think so? I mean, I really tried not to," he dropped his hands and knotted his fingers in his opposite sleeves. He stared at the floor halfway to the far wall, his eyes a little too wide. "But, I mean, I must have, right? She wouldn't just--Her Majesty wouldn't just say something like...I must have done something wrong." He looked up at Russia. "What should I do?" he asked plaintively.
"I really could not say." He tapped the toe of his boot against the tile. "I take it that you have offended Her Imperial Majesty, somehow, and--" America's crestfallen look stopped him mid-sentence. Russia coughed and looked away. "Or, perhaps there's been some sort of misunderstanding. You are new to this game, after all."
"Well, she...she..." America turned slowly red. "I-I must have misinterpreted her. I think. Because I thought that--she seemed to be..." His blush deepened into a rather uncomfortable-looking shade of purple. "Ah...s-suggesting something. T-to me."
"That was the point of this meeting, America," Russia said gently, watching the flush spread across America's face. "I should hope you weren't offended by her plans to ride your growing market? Because it is all planned out, and would be extraordinarily beneficial to both of us..."
If America shrunk against that wall any more, he would disappear. "R-ride my what?"
"Your market, of course." Russia continued carefully, watching America's hands, curled into fists against his crossed arms, start to shake. "It's been growing quite steadily, and we feel--"
"Oh, right, my market." America shuddered. "Look, is Empress Catherine always so...so...forceful?"
Russia blinked. So force-- Ah.
Ah.
He took a deep breath and tilted his head back against the wall. The glass in the chandeliers glittered in the morning light, and he did his best to focus on them, and not the stammering nation--still just a boy, really--standing beside him. "She's quite a woman," he began noncommittally, his voice taking on a lower timbre. "Brilliant in all matters. Both state and," a tiny exhalation that could have been a laugh, "Personal."
"I-I, I, uh, I'm sure she is, but does she know...I mean, she knows you, so she must be aware of what--do you think there's been some confusion, or--"
"Oh, no, there's no confusion. And, if you are implying what I believe you are, it is also entirely possible." Russia shifted against the cedar paneling. "As I recall, England and that man Hobbes were rather close--"
"What?" America squeaked. He cleared his throat. "B-but, why would you want to--I mean!" his voice twisted off in mounting panic. Thinner and weaker, then: "Oh hell, what do I do? Sh-she said I had b-beautiful eyes, and, and she--"
Russia stared at him for a moment, face blank. America stared back, his 'beautiful eyes' wide. Russia let out a deep, shuddering sigh, one that might, just for a moment, be mistaken for a chuckle. "You do what one should do when an Empress pays them a compliment: thank her." America's mouth formed a protest, but Russia dropped a hand on his shoulder, effectively silencing him. "Especially when the compliment is true."
America went rigid under his grip. He looked like nothing so much as a frightened cat about to bolt. He wet his lips, opened his mouth, closed it, and then, abandoning any pretense at diplomacy, he cried, "What is wrong with all you people?"
Russia's bark of laughter rang clear up to the chandeliers. "I had no idea," he managed, unable to meet America's eyes for fear of being set off again, "That you had such reservations about these things. Those meetings could have been far more interesting."
America swatted his hand off his shoulder and stumbled a step away from the wall. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "What did I do?"
Russia made no attempt to follow him, just shifted weakly into the space America had vacated, shoulders shaking with badly-suppressed laughter. "I just assumed, given your dalliances with France, of all people, that my Empress' advances would not disturb you as much as they obviously did."
"What?" America squealed. His hands jerked up in the universal 'stay back, slow down' gesture. That purple color was coming back. "I didn't--I never--who told you--"
"France's writer Voltaire is a close friend of Her Imperial Majesty, who passed it along to me. And, according to him--how should I put this--alliances have been made."
America stood very still, twitching, for several seconds. Then one hand came up to cover his eyes, the other propped on his hip. He breathed steadily for a while. "So, do you just not have discretion over here, or..."
Russia subtly mimicked his pose. "Discretion is an English invention, America. And at any rate, what he calls discretion, the rest of us call dishonesty." He steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips. "There's no shame in it. Francis and I have had an understanding for many years."
A small jolt passed through America, but his posture remained otherwise unchanged. In an odd little voice, he managed, "Well, I'm so glad that I've brought the two of us closer together by proxy."
A tiny knot of guilt twisted in Russia's stomach, and before he knew it, his hand had returned to its resting place on America's shoulder. "I meant no offense," he said softly. "I was simply remarking on the, ah, discrepancies between our cultures."
Russia could feel America's muscles slowly unclench. After a time, he lowered his hand and blew out an unsteady breath. He still wouldn't meet Russia's eyes. "O-of course. No offense taken. A-and I didn't mean to give any, either. If I did, I mean. I'm...not very good at any of this, yet. Thank you for being..." he trailed off for a few seconds. His eyes drifted, unfocused, into the middle distance. "Patient," he finished.
That, at least, earned him a smile. Russia squeezed his shoulder. It had been a long time since he had interacted with someone this...sensitive. "You're welcome. And I do hope that you won't hold any of this ridiculous conversation against me."
"N-no, of course not," and now America looked up at him, and smiled back. He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I've made a total idiot of myself, haven't I? I'm sorry. I really do want to know how you do things. I've been really impressed, you know, with everything, ever since I got here. We don't have anything like this..." he blinked and met Russia's eyes again with an expression of genuine concern. "Do you think I should go back and apologize to Her Majesty? I don't want her to think I was upset. I-I mean, I sort of was, but it's not her fault that I--ah--"
"Misconstrued her?" Russia offered. "But then, you didn't, did you?"
America gave a helpless little shrug.
"The best course of action would be to continue your meeting with her as if nothing had happened. I know my Empress well enough to know that she will admire your tenacity." He pressed his fingertips to the small of America's back and gave him a gentle push towards the audience chamber. "And if she does become--how did you say it, forceful again, I'll see to it that she treats you with a bit more restraint."
America threw him a look of profound gratitude, then snapped his jacket straight on his shoulders and followed Russia's lead.
+++
- Catherine the Great was the Empress of Russia from 1762-1796. She was a brilliant politician, but is slightly more famous for her voracious sexual appetite.
- The new government of the United States of America appointed Francis Dana as their first Russian Ambassador. John Quincy Adams served as his translator. Despite the three years Dana spent in St. Petersburg, diplomatic ties with England prevented Russia from formally recognizing the United States.
- Thomas Hobbes was a famed English philosopher, best known for his political treatise Leviathan.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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. Mentions of Catherine the Great.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1780 - An impressionable young America is not quite prepared for his first exposure to the Russian court.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
St. Petersburg, Russia. Spring, 1780.
It wouldn't be fair to say that America fled St. George's Hall. He looked more like someone who had just remembered that he had somewhere else to be, very far away, in not much time, but he wouldn't run because that would be rude and might cause a commotion. A hundred feet down the hallway he stopped all at once and leaned against the wall. He shut his eyes. His head hit the paneling with a soft thunk. He looked out of place against the opulence of the Winter Palace; badly tailored and entirely too flushed. Diplomacy alone couldn't be that nerve-wracking for a young country.
With a nudge of his hips, Russia pushed himself from a nearby alcove, the tails of his coat catching on the moulding.
America blinked his eyes open and looked around. "Oh, uh--" he started. Stopped. He tugged his jacket straight and hastily patted down his hair. "Uh, hi! I was just--I mean, I wasn't--am I bothering you? There was just, uh..." he scrubbed his forehead distractedly with the back of his hand.
"Bothering?" Russia strolled up next to him, head slightly to one side. "Certainly not."
"That's, uh, that's good." His fingers scrabbled to straighten his cravat. "I just wasn't sure if--"
"If what? If running out in the middle of a meeting was frowned upon, diplomatically speaking?"
America's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, I wasn't--I didn't mean to offend anybody--I just..." he blew out a sharp breath. "I, uh, I think there may have been a...a misunderstanding. Of some kind."
Russia watched America impassively. "Oh?" The boy kept fighting with his cravat, all nervous energy, and Russia suddenly wanted nothing more than to slap his hands away and do it himself. "What did Her Imperial Majesty have to say?"
America looked like he was going to be sick. "She, ahh." His voice wavered. He turned a bit pale and cast an uneasy glance back down the hallway, towards the throne room. "She was very...w-welcoming?"
The other nation arched an eyebrow. "This is strange, where you are from?" He leaned out past America, followed his gaze down the hall, and smirked. "And there is no one following you."
"Oh, thank the good Lord," America blurted. He sucked a breath through his teeth and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Uh, I mean--not that I meant--ahaha, of course there's no one following..."
The young nation gave up and leaned back against the wall again. He covered his face with his hands and groaned softly.
Had he ever been so jumpy when he was young? Russia shrugged and leaned back with him, arms crossed over his chest. "And why would someone be following you? You did not say something... foolish?"
America winced. "I, uh, I don't think so? I mean, I really tried not to," he dropped his hands and knotted his fingers in his opposite sleeves. He stared at the floor halfway to the far wall, his eyes a little too wide. "But, I mean, I must have, right? She wouldn't just--Her Majesty wouldn't just say something like...I must have done something wrong." He looked up at Russia. "What should I do?" he asked plaintively.
"I really could not say." He tapped the toe of his boot against the tile. "I take it that you have offended Her Imperial Majesty, somehow, and--" America's crestfallen look stopped him mid-sentence. Russia coughed and looked away. "Or, perhaps there's been some sort of misunderstanding. You are new to this game, after all."
"Well, she...she..." America turned slowly red. "I-I must have misinterpreted her. I think. Because I thought that--she seemed to be..." His blush deepened into a rather uncomfortable-looking shade of purple. "Ah...s-suggesting something. T-to me."
"That was the point of this meeting, America," Russia said gently, watching the flush spread across America's face. "I should hope you weren't offended by her plans to ride your growing market? Because it is all planned out, and would be extraordinarily beneficial to both of us..."
If America shrunk against that wall any more, he would disappear. "R-ride my what?"
"Your market, of course." Russia continued carefully, watching America's hands, curled into fists against his crossed arms, start to shake. "It's been growing quite steadily, and we feel--"
"Oh, right, my market." America shuddered. "Look, is Empress Catherine always so...so...forceful?"
Russia blinked. So force-- Ah.
Ah.
He took a deep breath and tilted his head back against the wall. The glass in the chandeliers glittered in the morning light, and he did his best to focus on them, and not the stammering nation--still just a boy, really--standing beside him. "She's quite a woman," he began noncommittally, his voice taking on a lower timbre. "Brilliant in all matters. Both state and," a tiny exhalation that could have been a laugh, "Personal."
"I-I, I, uh, I'm sure she is, but does she know...I mean, she knows you, so she must be aware of what--do you think there's been some confusion, or--"
"Oh, no, there's no confusion. And, if you are implying what I believe you are, it is also entirely possible." Russia shifted against the cedar paneling. "As I recall, England and that man Hobbes were rather close--"
"What?" America squeaked. He cleared his throat. "B-but, why would you want to--I mean!" his voice twisted off in mounting panic. Thinner and weaker, then: "Oh hell, what do I do? Sh-she said I had b-beautiful eyes, and, and she--"
Russia stared at him for a moment, face blank. America stared back, his 'beautiful eyes' wide. Russia let out a deep, shuddering sigh, one that might, just for a moment, be mistaken for a chuckle. "You do what one should do when an Empress pays them a compliment: thank her." America's mouth formed a protest, but Russia dropped a hand on his shoulder, effectively silencing him. "Especially when the compliment is true."
America went rigid under his grip. He looked like nothing so much as a frightened cat about to bolt. He wet his lips, opened his mouth, closed it, and then, abandoning any pretense at diplomacy, he cried, "What is wrong with all you people?"
Russia's bark of laughter rang clear up to the chandeliers. "I had no idea," he managed, unable to meet America's eyes for fear of being set off again, "That you had such reservations about these things. Those meetings could have been far more interesting."
America swatted his hand off his shoulder and stumbled a step away from the wall. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "What did I do?"
Russia made no attempt to follow him, just shifted weakly into the space America had vacated, shoulders shaking with badly-suppressed laughter. "I just assumed, given your dalliances with France, of all people, that my Empress' advances would not disturb you as much as they obviously did."
"What?" America squealed. His hands jerked up in the universal 'stay back, slow down' gesture. That purple color was coming back. "I didn't--I never--who told you--"
"France's writer Voltaire is a close friend of Her Imperial Majesty, who passed it along to me. And, according to him--how should I put this--alliances have been made."
America stood very still, twitching, for several seconds. Then one hand came up to cover his eyes, the other propped on his hip. He breathed steadily for a while. "So, do you just not have discretion over here, or..."
Russia subtly mimicked his pose. "Discretion is an English invention, America. And at any rate, what he calls discretion, the rest of us call dishonesty." He steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips. "There's no shame in it. Francis and I have had an understanding for many years."
A small jolt passed through America, but his posture remained otherwise unchanged. In an odd little voice, he managed, "Well, I'm so glad that I've brought the two of us closer together by proxy."
A tiny knot of guilt twisted in Russia's stomach, and before he knew it, his hand had returned to its resting place on America's shoulder. "I meant no offense," he said softly. "I was simply remarking on the, ah, discrepancies between our cultures."
Russia could feel America's muscles slowly unclench. After a time, he lowered his hand and blew out an unsteady breath. He still wouldn't meet Russia's eyes. "O-of course. No offense taken. A-and I didn't mean to give any, either. If I did, I mean. I'm...not very good at any of this, yet. Thank you for being..." he trailed off for a few seconds. His eyes drifted, unfocused, into the middle distance. "Patient," he finished.
That, at least, earned him a smile. Russia squeezed his shoulder. It had been a long time since he had interacted with someone this...sensitive. "You're welcome. And I do hope that you won't hold any of this ridiculous conversation against me."
"N-no, of course not," and now America looked up at him, and smiled back. He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I've made a total idiot of myself, haven't I? I'm sorry. I really do want to know how you do things. I've been really impressed, you know, with everything, ever since I got here. We don't have anything like this..." he blinked and met Russia's eyes again with an expression of genuine concern. "Do you think I should go back and apologize to Her Majesty? I don't want her to think I was upset. I-I mean, I sort of was, but it's not her fault that I--ah--"
"Misconstrued her?" Russia offered. "But then, you didn't, did you?"
America gave a helpless little shrug.
"The best course of action would be to continue your meeting with her as if nothing had happened. I know my Empress well enough to know that she will admire your tenacity." He pressed his fingertips to the small of America's back and gave him a gentle push towards the audience chamber. "And if she does become--how did you say it, forceful again, I'll see to it that she treats you with a bit more restraint."
America threw him a look of profound gratitude, then snapped his jacket straight on his shoulders and followed Russia's lead.
+++
- Catherine the Great was the Empress of Russia from 1762-1796. She was a brilliant politician, but is slightly more famous for her voracious sexual appetite.
- The new government of the United States of America appointed Francis Dana as their first Russian Ambassador. John Quincy Adams served as his translator. Despite the three years Dana spent in St. Petersburg, diplomatic ties with England prevented Russia from formally recognizing the United States.
- Thomas Hobbes was a famed English philosopher, best known for his political treatise Leviathan.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.