52 - My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 3]
Title: My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 3]
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - Russia attempts to renegotiate the terms of his deal, and America finally draws a line in the sand.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Washington D.C. Ocober 27, 1962.
America had been quivering inside his clothes ever since he got up that morning. Russia was--Russia was coming, he was coming himself, with a couple of diplomats and there were negotiations and shit to do and sure there were maybe still missiles in Cuba, but, but, America was pretty sure they'd work that out okay now--pretty sure--and he, and he--figured the...technical negotiations could be worked out by their diplomats and the Joint Chiefs and the President, this time around.
He was prepared to get pretty metaphorical about him and Russia 'resolving their tensions.'
It was the longest hour he'd ever spent in traffic, idling up to the White House through congested DC streets, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as mist fogged up the windows blue. He didn't even stop to say hi to the valet, or the nice lady at the front desk who always smelled like cinnamon and coffee, or the Secret Service guys who flanked the doors--they stood aside for him and exchanged a glance, he loved those guys, he always made them a little bit nervous--it was just, Where are the Russians? --And then up the stairs, hallway, hallway, striding past a regiment of doors until, right, there--
He caught Russia by the back of his coat as he was about to trail the negotiating party into a conference room. America tugged him around, and dragged him down two doors into an empty room, knocked the door shut behind them, pinned Russia back against it and pressed their mouths together.
A small, startled sound flew out of Russia, muffled between their lips. His hand twisted into the front of America's suit, drew the fabric into a hard bunch between his fingers. America melted against him from chest to knee.
Rain pattered across the windowpanes, its steady rhythm magnified in the silence.
Russia's clothes rumpled beneath America's hands: America imagined his way through the fabric to Russia's cool, soft skin underneath. America's breath warmed, sped, and he kissed from Russia's mouth to his temple, his fingers tangling into his hair, and from his temple to that sensitive sweep right behind his ear. "I-I can't believe you said it," he managed, sweet and dazed. "I, I--"
Russia's body twinged, gentle, in America's arms, and then his fingertips drifted up to the warm curve of his neck. "You--" Russia licked his lips. "You read it, then?"
America giggled, thin and hitching. "Yeah I read it, they, the guy, uh--it got handed to me right in the middle of a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, a-and--I guess I must've looked so stunned they thought it was bad news, 'cause they all started asking me if we'd been attacked--"
Russia's eyelashes flickered: a moment of uncertainty. He gripped the edge of America's tie and urged him forward for another kiss. "And what did you say?" he mumbled.
America blushed a shade, nuzzled his cheek against Russia's, tightened his body against him. "W-well I just said you'd sent us, um, a good offer, a really really good offer, and so they spent the rest of the night talking about it and um I think they're gonna go for it, like--yeah, why wouldn't they?" America's neck, ears, stomach, all tingled. "But I, um, I kinda excused myself, because I just kinda, kinda, needed to think about the, um--the other thing you said."
Russia swallowed, sagged briefly against the door--then drew himself up. It wasn't pulling away as much as it was a gradual retreat to his own height. Their bodies were still flush together, their suits wrinkling between them. Russia's fingers loosened in America's shirtfront. "I need to speak with you about that offer," he said. "There have been some...changes."
America shut his mouth, blinked. "Um...why? I mean--what changes?" Say you love me. I just want to hear you say it.
"It's...no longer enough that you promise not to invade Cuba." At some point in the last few seconds, Russia's face had closed. His lips, jaw: both tight. "We need you to remove your Jupiter missiles from Italy and Turkey as well."
"...Huh?" America settled down on his heels, still blinking. His hand hung loose on Russia's shoulder.
Jupiter missiles...no, right, he remembered about the Jupiter missiles. Italy had even called him up yesterday offering to get rid of them, if that would help him out with Russia (and Turkey had called him up the day before that saying that America could expect to find his balls at the cleaners if he tried to take the Jupiters away). But--why was-- He squinted and shook his head. "Why're you bringing all that into it?"
"Because it's fair," Russia's voice was still soft, but there was ice in that last word. "You're afraid of what I'm capable of with missiles stationed ninety miles away from your coastline. But those Jupiters are just on the other side of my border."
America felt a bit stupid, all of a sudden, half-wrapped around Russia. He dropped his arms and shifted a step back. "But--you said--" He stopped himself. "I thought you--I thought you didn't want to make it political anymore. And we could just...forget the whole thing, and not have a war."
Russia smoothed his hands down his lapels, straightened his tie. The warm creases left by America's hands disappeared. "Perhaps forgetting about it isn't the best decision. If you want me to disarm my ally, you should be willing to do the same."
Something fuzzy and red and unpleasant percolated up inside America's skull. He said, "But I don't want to nuke you. I-I could--" he swallowed. Even his teeth felt too warm. "I could never hurt you, either. And you started this."
"It doesn't matter who started it," Russia returned. His gaze flickered down and to the side, just to the left of America's foot. It hovered for a few seconds, then shot back up. "Let's just finish it. America, the deal I offered before...It was...I was...too generous. I-I don't think that you would hurt me, but--" An awkward silence. Russia gnawed on his lower lip and avoided America's eyes. "How can I be sure?"
"No," America said.
He didn't know what exactly he was saying no to; just no.
He shoved his thumbs into his pockets. "It doesn't matter who started it, huh. Of course you'd say that. I mean, you started it. I thought you were--you were being generous because--" You love me; America couldn't say it now.
Russia's fingers cramped into fists. "We were on the brink of war." It spilt out through grit teeth. "I wanted to...One of us had to do something, and you said it wasn't going to be you, and I...I meant it. Just...it needs to be something different now. I can't sacrifice my standing for you without knowing I'll get something in return." He was trembling, barely trembling, and the color had drained from his face and lips.
"It's not a fucking sacrifice if you're getting something back for it." America didn't know why he was getting angry, he didn't want to get angry, but--but--God, the way Russia blanched made America want to slap him. "You, you--pick a fight with me, you tell my to my face that I'm too spineless to do anything about it--and then, I mean-- ...And now you want to cut a deal?"
"Why shouldn't I? Surely you don't except me to just give you this?" Russia let out a hard breath. "This isn't...I don't want this deal to be personal. Just...just equitable." His eyes widened, snapped up to America. "Except--Personal, of course the letter was personal, but... It was--was honest, I didn't lie to you...There have only been a few changes..."
The second half of what Russia said got lost in the red buzz. "Why shouldn't you just give it to me?" America's fingers twitched. "Why shouldn't it be personal? Jesus fucking Christ, Russia, everything that's gone on between us since about 1860-something has been personal. Did you just not fucking notice?" That fuzzy red climbed up higher, into the dark behind his eyes. "This, this--whole situation--the whole fucking Cold War--we did this to each other. Haven't you been paying attention?"
Russia's eyes closed for a breath, and his eyebrows trembled together. "The only reason we're here is because it's all been personal! If you hadn't said...If you hadn't been waiting for me to say..." He leaned harder back against the door. "If we hadn't fucked, if you--hadn't come to my home after what happened with China, if I hadn't l-let you threaten me in Nebraska...Maybe we could have avoided all of this! It's our fault! Why would you want to keep doing things that way?"
America's flush scalded him. "Because I love you, a-and you said you loved me back, a-and you didn't want to hurt me and, and, we didn't have to do this--and now--y-you just--" His throat ached, why did his throat ache, like he'd taken a swig of seawater? "--Want that to not matter?"
"I only want this to be fair..." Russia sounded lost. "Nothing ever is, with you...I have to--to put down my gun first, or unlock my door, or--or--"
"You are so full of shit!" His voice rang too loud against the paneled conference room walls, in the hollow blue-grey light. America sucked down short breaths. "What about you? You think you're fair to me? Y-you lie to me and push me away and, and," his stomach was too-hot and squirming, twitching, full of bees. "And you tell me you don't care that I love you, a-and you tell me that you n-never wanted me, and I keep coming back for you and you keep slapping me down and you broke my heart in 1933! And you've never even said you were sorry!" It hurt, in his throat, his lungs, it smote black behind his eyes, America felt sick--
"Then why do you keep trying?" Russia's voice cracked, hard and miserable. "Don't you ever think that we're--we're forcing something? It doesn't matter how much I want you, I'll still always try to make you leave me alone!"
Rain hissed down outside the window. The whole room was washed in grey shadows.
"I-I keep trying because I love you," America managed. His face stung. "And I thought you were...being nice to me and backing down about the missiles because you love me."
"America..." It was so soft, suddenly, so gentle. Only Russia ever called for him like that. Russia twisted at the ends of his scarf. "America, please. Take back the Jupiters. Don't drag this out anymore. We can--We can sort the...whatever is between us...We can sort it out afterwards."
"No." America bit down hard on his lower lip; let go. "No, this is 'whatever is between us.' Go back to--go back to the other deal." The one where you loved me. "And after that, if you're really so fucking worried about your safety, maybe we can--maybe something can happen with the Jupiters. I don't--I don't know. But you've made me wait so fucking long, Russia!" He jerked up straight, his mouth gone thin and his eyes hard. "Don't--don't back out of this now.
Russia stared at America, both of them breathing a touch too loud in that empty and rain-hushed room. It was almost a minute before Russia repeated, "Go back to the other deal." He touched his fingertips through his hair, lips twisted. "And if I choose not to? You'll kill me?"
America's heart gave a cold thump. He wet his lips. "If you won't do it to stop the war--I mean, if you're so dead-set on being fair... Then do it for 1933." His voice was quiet. "You fucking owe it to me."
A brief silence.
"I guess you'd better take that back to your government. 'Cause that's all I've got to say."
Russia pushed away from the wall, swayed, a shiver in his fingertips. "I'll...I'll be sure to tell them." He sounded faint. "And...perhaps we should let our bosses handle the correspondence from now on."
"Fine." America pushed up his glasses and didn't reach for him.
Russia paused with his hand on the doorknob. "But I...I am sorry." His shoulders tightened. "About 1933…I never meant it."
"And knowing that now does me about this much good." America turned away from Russia and dropped his hands into his jacket pockets. "Do something that means something to me now, if you really are sorry."
Russia twinged, his eyes soft and distant. He didn't speak.
The door shut behind him.
America let out a hard held breath and leaned against the conference table, and wondered if by this time tomorrow they would be at war.
+++
--The morning after Khrushchev's telegram arrived, detailing the offer of a removal of the missiles in Cuba in exchange for an assurance that the United States would never participate in an invasion of Cuba, another, different offer reached the White House. Contrary to the letter of the night before, the message offered a new trade: that the missiles on Cuba would be removed in exchange for the removal of the Jupiters from Italy and Turkey. The change was most likely caused by an internal debate between Khrushchev and other Kremlin officials. Kennedy and his advisors were generally against the proposal, because it would undermine NATO--and the Turkish government had repeatedly stated it was against any such trade.
--Kennedy chose to ignore the second, less favorable offer, and instead accepted the first one, with an unspoken proviso that were Khrushchev to comply with the deal, the Jupiters in Italy and Turkey might then be 'voluntarily' removed. Within the U.S. establishment, it was well understood that ignoring the second offer and returning to the first put Khrushchev in a terrible position. Military preparations continued, and all active duty Air Force personnel were recalled to base for possible action.
--Robert Kennedy later recalled the mood: "We had not abandoned all hope, but what hope there was now rested with Khrushchev's revising his course within the next few hours. It was a hope, not an expectation. The expectation was military confrontation by Tuesday--and possibly tomorrow."
+++
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.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - Russia attempts to renegotiate the terms of his deal, and America finally draws a line in the sand.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Washington D.C. Ocober 27, 1962.
America had been quivering inside his clothes ever since he got up that morning. Russia was--Russia was coming, he was coming himself, with a couple of diplomats and there were negotiations and shit to do and sure there were maybe still missiles in Cuba, but, but, America was pretty sure they'd work that out okay now--pretty sure--and he, and he--figured the...technical negotiations could be worked out by their diplomats and the Joint Chiefs and the President, this time around.
He was prepared to get pretty metaphorical about him and Russia 'resolving their tensions.'
It was the longest hour he'd ever spent in traffic, idling up to the White House through congested DC streets, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as mist fogged up the windows blue. He didn't even stop to say hi to the valet, or the nice lady at the front desk who always smelled like cinnamon and coffee, or the Secret Service guys who flanked the doors--they stood aside for him and exchanged a glance, he loved those guys, he always made them a little bit nervous--it was just, Where are the Russians? --And then up the stairs, hallway, hallway, striding past a regiment of doors until, right, there--
He caught Russia by the back of his coat as he was about to trail the negotiating party into a conference room. America tugged him around, and dragged him down two doors into an empty room, knocked the door shut behind them, pinned Russia back against it and pressed their mouths together.
A small, startled sound flew out of Russia, muffled between their lips. His hand twisted into the front of America's suit, drew the fabric into a hard bunch between his fingers. America melted against him from chest to knee.
Rain pattered across the windowpanes, its steady rhythm magnified in the silence.
Russia's clothes rumpled beneath America's hands: America imagined his way through the fabric to Russia's cool, soft skin underneath. America's breath warmed, sped, and he kissed from Russia's mouth to his temple, his fingers tangling into his hair, and from his temple to that sensitive sweep right behind his ear. "I-I can't believe you said it," he managed, sweet and dazed. "I, I--"
Russia's body twinged, gentle, in America's arms, and then his fingertips drifted up to the warm curve of his neck. "You--" Russia licked his lips. "You read it, then?"
America giggled, thin and hitching. "Yeah I read it, they, the guy, uh--it got handed to me right in the middle of a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, a-and--I guess I must've looked so stunned they thought it was bad news, 'cause they all started asking me if we'd been attacked--"
Russia's eyelashes flickered: a moment of uncertainty. He gripped the edge of America's tie and urged him forward for another kiss. "And what did you say?" he mumbled.
America blushed a shade, nuzzled his cheek against Russia's, tightened his body against him. "W-well I just said you'd sent us, um, a good offer, a really really good offer, and so they spent the rest of the night talking about it and um I think they're gonna go for it, like--yeah, why wouldn't they?" America's neck, ears, stomach, all tingled. "But I, um, I kinda excused myself, because I just kinda, kinda, needed to think about the, um--the other thing you said."
Russia swallowed, sagged briefly against the door--then drew himself up. It wasn't pulling away as much as it was a gradual retreat to his own height. Their bodies were still flush together, their suits wrinkling between them. Russia's fingers loosened in America's shirtfront. "I need to speak with you about that offer," he said. "There have been some...changes."
America shut his mouth, blinked. "Um...why? I mean--what changes?" Say you love me. I just want to hear you say it.
"It's...no longer enough that you promise not to invade Cuba." At some point in the last few seconds, Russia's face had closed. His lips, jaw: both tight. "We need you to remove your Jupiter missiles from Italy and Turkey as well."
"...Huh?" America settled down on his heels, still blinking. His hand hung loose on Russia's shoulder.
Jupiter missiles...no, right, he remembered about the Jupiter missiles. Italy had even called him up yesterday offering to get rid of them, if that would help him out with Russia (and Turkey had called him up the day before that saying that America could expect to find his balls at the cleaners if he tried to take the Jupiters away). But--why was-- He squinted and shook his head. "Why're you bringing all that into it?"
"Because it's fair," Russia's voice was still soft, but there was ice in that last word. "You're afraid of what I'm capable of with missiles stationed ninety miles away from your coastline. But those Jupiters are just on the other side of my border."
America felt a bit stupid, all of a sudden, half-wrapped around Russia. He dropped his arms and shifted a step back. "But--you said--" He stopped himself. "I thought you--I thought you didn't want to make it political anymore. And we could just...forget the whole thing, and not have a war."
Russia smoothed his hands down his lapels, straightened his tie. The warm creases left by America's hands disappeared. "Perhaps forgetting about it isn't the best decision. If you want me to disarm my ally, you should be willing to do the same."
Something fuzzy and red and unpleasant percolated up inside America's skull. He said, "But I don't want to nuke you. I-I could--" he swallowed. Even his teeth felt too warm. "I could never hurt you, either. And you started this."
"It doesn't matter who started it," Russia returned. His gaze flickered down and to the side, just to the left of America's foot. It hovered for a few seconds, then shot back up. "Let's just finish it. America, the deal I offered before...It was...I was...too generous. I-I don't think that you would hurt me, but--" An awkward silence. Russia gnawed on his lower lip and avoided America's eyes. "How can I be sure?"
"No," America said.
He didn't know what exactly he was saying no to; just no.
He shoved his thumbs into his pockets. "It doesn't matter who started it, huh. Of course you'd say that. I mean, you started it. I thought you were--you were being generous because--" You love me; America couldn't say it now.
Russia's fingers cramped into fists. "We were on the brink of war." It spilt out through grit teeth. "I wanted to...One of us had to do something, and you said it wasn't going to be you, and I...I meant it. Just...it needs to be something different now. I can't sacrifice my standing for you without knowing I'll get something in return." He was trembling, barely trembling, and the color had drained from his face and lips.
"It's not a fucking sacrifice if you're getting something back for it." America didn't know why he was getting angry, he didn't want to get angry, but--but--God, the way Russia blanched made America want to slap him. "You, you--pick a fight with me, you tell my to my face that I'm too spineless to do anything about it--and then, I mean-- ...And now you want to cut a deal?"
"Why shouldn't I? Surely you don't except me to just give you this?" Russia let out a hard breath. "This isn't...I don't want this deal to be personal. Just...just equitable." His eyes widened, snapped up to America. "Except--Personal, of course the letter was personal, but... It was--was honest, I didn't lie to you...There have only been a few changes..."
The second half of what Russia said got lost in the red buzz. "Why shouldn't you just give it to me?" America's fingers twitched. "Why shouldn't it be personal? Jesus fucking Christ, Russia, everything that's gone on between us since about 1860-something has been personal. Did you just not fucking notice?" That fuzzy red climbed up higher, into the dark behind his eyes. "This, this--whole situation--the whole fucking Cold War--we did this to each other. Haven't you been paying attention?"
Russia's eyes closed for a breath, and his eyebrows trembled together. "The only reason we're here is because it's all been personal! If you hadn't said...If you hadn't been waiting for me to say..." He leaned harder back against the door. "If we hadn't fucked, if you--hadn't come to my home after what happened with China, if I hadn't l-let you threaten me in Nebraska...Maybe we could have avoided all of this! It's our fault! Why would you want to keep doing things that way?"
America's flush scalded him. "Because I love you, a-and you said you loved me back, a-and you didn't want to hurt me and, and, we didn't have to do this--and now--y-you just--" His throat ached, why did his throat ache, like he'd taken a swig of seawater? "--Want that to not matter?"
"I only want this to be fair..." Russia sounded lost. "Nothing ever is, with you...I have to--to put down my gun first, or unlock my door, or--or--"
"You are so full of shit!" His voice rang too loud against the paneled conference room walls, in the hollow blue-grey light. America sucked down short breaths. "What about you? You think you're fair to me? Y-you lie to me and push me away and, and," his stomach was too-hot and squirming, twitching, full of bees. "And you tell me you don't care that I love you, a-and you tell me that you n-never wanted me, and I keep coming back for you and you keep slapping me down and you broke my heart in 1933! And you've never even said you were sorry!" It hurt, in his throat, his lungs, it smote black behind his eyes, America felt sick--
"Then why do you keep trying?" Russia's voice cracked, hard and miserable. "Don't you ever think that we're--we're forcing something? It doesn't matter how much I want you, I'll still always try to make you leave me alone!"
Rain hissed down outside the window. The whole room was washed in grey shadows.
"I-I keep trying because I love you," America managed. His face stung. "And I thought you were...being nice to me and backing down about the missiles because you love me."
"America..." It was so soft, suddenly, so gentle. Only Russia ever called for him like that. Russia twisted at the ends of his scarf. "America, please. Take back the Jupiters. Don't drag this out anymore. We can--We can sort the...whatever is between us...We can sort it out afterwards."
"No." America bit down hard on his lower lip; let go. "No, this is 'whatever is between us.' Go back to--go back to the other deal." The one where you loved me. "And after that, if you're really so fucking worried about your safety, maybe we can--maybe something can happen with the Jupiters. I don't--I don't know. But you've made me wait so fucking long, Russia!" He jerked up straight, his mouth gone thin and his eyes hard. "Don't--don't back out of this now.
Russia stared at America, both of them breathing a touch too loud in that empty and rain-hushed room. It was almost a minute before Russia repeated, "Go back to the other deal." He touched his fingertips through his hair, lips twisted. "And if I choose not to? You'll kill me?"
America's heart gave a cold thump. He wet his lips. "If you won't do it to stop the war--I mean, if you're so dead-set on being fair... Then do it for 1933." His voice was quiet. "You fucking owe it to me."
A brief silence.
"I guess you'd better take that back to your government. 'Cause that's all I've got to say."
Russia pushed away from the wall, swayed, a shiver in his fingertips. "I'll...I'll be sure to tell them." He sounded faint. "And...perhaps we should let our bosses handle the correspondence from now on."
"Fine." America pushed up his glasses and didn't reach for him.
Russia paused with his hand on the doorknob. "But I...I am sorry." His shoulders tightened. "About 1933…I never meant it."
"And knowing that now does me about this much good." America turned away from Russia and dropped his hands into his jacket pockets. "Do something that means something to me now, if you really are sorry."
Russia twinged, his eyes soft and distant. He didn't speak.
The door shut behind him.
America let out a hard held breath and leaned against the conference table, and wondered if by this time tomorrow they would be at war.
+++
--The morning after Khrushchev's telegram arrived, detailing the offer of a removal of the missiles in Cuba in exchange for an assurance that the United States would never participate in an invasion of Cuba, another, different offer reached the White House. Contrary to the letter of the night before, the message offered a new trade: that the missiles on Cuba would be removed in exchange for the removal of the Jupiters from Italy and Turkey. The change was most likely caused by an internal debate between Khrushchev and other Kremlin officials. Kennedy and his advisors were generally against the proposal, because it would undermine NATO--and the Turkish government had repeatedly stated it was against any such trade.
--Kennedy chose to ignore the second, less favorable offer, and instead accepted the first one, with an unspoken proviso that were Khrushchev to comply with the deal, the Jupiters in Italy and Turkey might then be 'voluntarily' removed. Within the U.S. establishment, it was well understood that ignoring the second offer and returning to the first put Khrushchev in a terrible position. Military preparations continued, and all active duty Air Force personnel were recalled to base for possible action.
--Robert Kennedy later recalled the mood: "We had not abandoned all hope, but what hope there was now rested with Khrushchev's revising his course within the next few hours. It was a hope, not an expectation. The expectation was military confrontation by Tuesday--and possibly tomorrow."
+++
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.