53 - My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 4]
Title: My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 4]
Characters: America, England.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1962 - In a London pub, America receives advice from an unlikely source. Good advice, even.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London. October 27, 1962.
'The King's Head off Whitehall.' God, could England be any more British?
Whatever, it was warm inside; the streets outside felt like huffing soggy ice crystals, like the cold slithered through your coat and punched a few needles through your insides, unless you were wearing one of those thick flat wool coats everybody in England wore, the kind that looked like a lead suit. The bar was warm, and well-lit. America's glasses fogged up. He dragged them off and unzipped his jacket, and felt the tips of his ears thawing out.
By the time he'd wiped his glasses clear on the edge of his shirt and slid them back on, England had already spotted him--sort of half-watching him from the bar, a glass of something half-raised. America pushed towards him. He only got a little jostled; it wasn't as busy in here as he'd thought it'd be.
"Hey," he said, half-smiling. He dropped onto the stool next to England.
England raised his eyebrows, and made a welcoming sound from around his drink. The glass thunked down onto the bartop when he finished. "Thought you might have gotten yourself lost."
"Twice," America chirped, and shucked his jacket into his lap. "But I asked for directions. 'S the only time your people are ever friendly, you know that? When they're telling me how to go away faster."
"Londoners," England replied, a trace of fondness in his tone. He leaned over and rapped his knuckles against the bar, attracting the attention of the young lady cleaning glasses. "Another, miss, if you will?" He looked over his shoulder at America. "What are you drinking?"
"You always yell at me when I try and order anything in your bars." America rubbed a hand through his hair.
"Because you order beer that scarcely deserves the label. And you get upset when you're served a pint of bitter that isn't cold. It doesn't come cold, America."
"Just gimme whatever he's having," America addressed to the girl, wry.
He slouched one elbow over the bar and looked back at England. A second passed.
"So, uh."
"'Uh', indeed," England said dryly. He watched the steady rush of Guinness into his glass over at the tap. "The two of you have been quite busy over the past several days."
"Yeah, well, that's why I'm here." America propped his cheek on his fist. A few strands of hair floated into his eyes. "If me and Russia are gonna blow up the world, I figured I should at least buy you a drink first."
"How very kind of you." England sat up, and accepted both glasses back from the barmaid. He set America's down carefully in front of him. Foam shivered at the very tops of their drinks. "And you've done everything you can? Truly made every effort? --Or are we all going to die as a result of your pride?"
"What am I, nine?" America dragged his drink in front of him and grimaced. "Yeah, I've tried. You know, this has really got nothing to do with pride."
"Doesn't it?" England frowned at him. "Both you and Russia would rather go to war than lose face. If that's not pride, I don't know what is."
"Forget it," America muttered, and sucked at his drink.
They drank in silence for a while, patrons clattering and laughing around them.
Finally, half a pint later, England turned at the waist and propped his head on his fist; looked at America. "What is it about, then?"
America sighed against the lip of his glass. It sent ripples across the surface of his beer. "I don't know."
He worked the taste of beer in his mouth, then put down his drink and dropped his head between his hands, pinned by his temples. "We've got this whole...whole...thing. I don't know. It's not pride," he repeated. He glanced half-sideways at England. "Like...I'm not gonna pretend there's not some of that in there, too, but like..." How the hell was he supposed to explain it? "It's like..." He bit his lip, eyebrows drawn together. "I mean, Christ, you know me and Russia have been weird for...like, sixty fucking years..."
God, it had been sixty years.
England rubbed an idle finger along the seam of his sweater cuff. "And this...this impasse stems from that, as opposed to--simple stubbornness." Doubt hung heavy in his voice.
America glared at England and snatched up his drink again. "I know you've got a whole lot of opinion about me and being stubborn, but you want to give me a tiny bit of credit? I wouldn't nuke Russia out of stubborn." That thought again--nuking Russia--hurting Russia. A dark squeeze went off in his heart.
"I have a modicum of faith in you. Less so in Russia. You may not start a war as a matter of pride, but I find it hard to believe that he wouldn't."
"He doesn't want to hurt me, either," America ground out. What was with this beer? It sat in his stomach as heavy as lead.
"And yet, here we are."
America shrugged, and tried another sip of the stuff. "Wouldn't expect you to understand" echoed against the back rim of his glass.
England's eyes narrowed. He caught America's gaze when the other nation lowered his drink. "Try me."
America was silent for about half a minute: he watched the liquor in his glass, the dull shine on the bar. Listened to England's people move around behind him. His mouth stuck shut for a second when he tried to talk. "I love Russia, okay." It was soft. "And--and he loves me back. But we just keep...doing it wrong, I don't know." A hesitation: a long, trembling breath let out through his nose. "I mean...we try and get closer, but we always fuck it up. And then I get upset, and he gets defensive, and the whole thing turns to shit, and then somebody pulls out a gun, usually me--it's usually me," he admitted.
"…I see." A heavy furrow opened between England's eyebrows, the way it always did when he was--weighing his words. There was a long silence. "Have you...Have you ever considered that loving him isn't enough? Despite what every one of your films has told you, America, the world doesn't move for love."
America's glass gave a crack as he lowered it to the bar. "You want to try not talking down to me for five minutes?"
"I'm sorry, it's difficult not to talk down to someone who is effectively threatening to commit suicide!" Heads turned across the bar, and England's voice dropped in response: low, but every bit as harsh. "I want to help you, but I don't know what you want me to say. Are you looking for honesty? Because I can give you that right now. But if you just want to know that I'm on your side in all of this, then you needn't have come at all. I'm always on your--"
"Maybe I would want an honest opinion, if your honest opinions weren't always 'America, shut up and do what I tell you,'" America hissed, his fingers tightening around the handle of his glass. His heart sped up, heated, he felt his teeth tighten. "You asked me what was going on and I'm trying to explain! Damn it, I know being in love isn't enough, I mean, we've only broken up like five times, obviously being in love isn't--"
"Or perhaps you could try staying apart," England snapped. He shoved his glass away, too rough, but managed to catch it before it overturned. His fingers pulsed around it, and he took a hard, steadying breath. The next time he spoke, the snarl had slunk away. "I understand that you want to keep trying...You always want to keep trying, whether it's with Russia or anything else...But it's...It's not worth it." He caught America's shirt cuff before he could interrupt. "And not because it has to do with the two of you. There's simply too much at stake."
America worked his jaw. Something in--something in what England had said gave America a hard tug of déjà-vu. "Russia said something like that," he stated. "Or--well, Russia was trying to say something like that."
England sat back on his stool. "What exactly did he say?"
Something dwindled in America, left him a little cold. He wet his lips. "That...that we shouldn't try...because maybe we were forcing something. Or...something." America rallied. "But Russia's always saying shit like that, he's been trying to push me away all along, because he's, he's--totally petrified of being vulnerable to anybody, and of people being nice to him, I mean, he's got--he's got issues, okay--" A short breath. "And he said we should keep the missile crisis deal thing all political, like, all business, even though, like, how could it not be personal, everything with us is personal…"
England's glass only had a bit of foam left, but he picked it up anyway, sucked down that last inch. "He may have ulterior motives, but I believe he's right. The politics between you and Russia have been rocky for decades now, and you can't tell me that isn't, in part, due to your...emotional entanglement."
"He's right," America repeated. "You're telling me Russia is right. He's been pulling this same shit with me for like a hundred fucking years--"
"And look where ignoring it's got you." It was almost too soft to catch over the clatter of the pub.
America's stomach sank. His...his throat ached, all of a sudden. "But that's...no, England."
A little spell of quiet, of clattering glasses.
"...I mean, we cared about each other, we--I-I love him," America faltered. "That's not--and he loves me too, he finally admitted it, it's not--it's not wrong to try and make things work…is it?"
"Not wrong, no," England murmured. "But love alone is not a good enough reason to keep trying. If you go on like you have been, choking in your politics, next time..." He stopped. "I'm sorry, that's not right. America, if you don't make some kind of change, I don't believe there will be a next time."
America slouched an inch over his beer. He didn't...he didn't want to drink anymore. Or he wanted to drink something a lot stronger than this.
When he spoke, his voice was loud but--fragile. "So, so what am I supposed to do, just...ignore how we feel? Like, all the time? Stop--stop spending time together, just...keep it strictly business?" His stomach lurched.
England hesitated--the flicker showed in his eyes--then placed a hand on America's forearm; squeezed. "Can you think of a better way?"
"I..." America's voice cracked.
He met England's gaze. "I don't want to hurt him," he pleaded. "I-I mean--I don't want to go to war with him, I don't--I don't--"
"You may not have to, if you can manage this," England replied. His fingers tapped against America's sleeve. "You'll need to make Russia agree with you."
"Russia already agrees," America mumbled, miserable. He scrubbed his hair off his forehead, and it fell right back down. "Russia's been trying to convince me this all isn't worth it for ages."
The bar had begun to go quiet, and the air seemed to coalesce around just the two of them: warm and close and heavy with the scent of liquor. "Do you think so, too?" England asked, as gentle as he ever got. "Or are you simply out of options?"
There was something heavy and muzzy and unhappy pressing down on the back of America's head. He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. "Well...it's not like my way worked, did it?" There was still a fragile note of longing in his voice, a little hope. "I mean...sure, we love each other, and we both know it, that's great. But we're still all set to blow each other's heads off. Maybe..." In some dim, too-hot corner of his mind, America couldn't believe he was saying this. "Maybe Russia really is right. Maybe we should...should..." He blew out an unsteady breath. "Concentrate on something that doesn't make us so...emotional."
"Russia rather likes to think that he's entirely invulnerable, doesn't he? He'll adapt to this easily enough. But you...I believe this is something that you will truly have to commit to." England watched him, his fingers quiet in America's sleeve. "For your own sake, as much as Russia's, or mine, or that of the rest of the world."
America looked down into his hands. "It wouldn't have to be forever, or anything," he tried, quiet. "I mean...if, if we're all business, then...things should stop getting so out of hand. And--and eventually, our relations--o-our business relations, um, our politics--they should normalize, right?" It was faint. "And then we could. We could see where we wanted to go with it."
England nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose. But your politics may not change for a long time, no matter how detached you are from your relations. It could be decades. Maybe more. You need to be prepared for that."
America's heart compressed, thundered. He folded his arms on the bar and propped his chin on his wrists, and stared into the dark gold of his glass. "I hate this, England," he whispered.
"I know." England touched America once more, on the shoulder. It was halting, a bit awkward--England being comforting always was--but genuine. "But you know it's what needs to be done."
+++
--No footnotes this chapter you guys, we are seriously freaking out.
+++
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: America, England.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1962 - In a London pub, America receives advice from an unlikely source. Good advice, even.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London. October 27, 1962.
'The King's Head off Whitehall.' God, could England be any more British?
Whatever, it was warm inside; the streets outside felt like huffing soggy ice crystals, like the cold slithered through your coat and punched a few needles through your insides, unless you were wearing one of those thick flat wool coats everybody in England wore, the kind that looked like a lead suit. The bar was warm, and well-lit. America's glasses fogged up. He dragged them off and unzipped his jacket, and felt the tips of his ears thawing out.
By the time he'd wiped his glasses clear on the edge of his shirt and slid them back on, England had already spotted him--sort of half-watching him from the bar, a glass of something half-raised. America pushed towards him. He only got a little jostled; it wasn't as busy in here as he'd thought it'd be.
"Hey," he said, half-smiling. He dropped onto the stool next to England.
England raised his eyebrows, and made a welcoming sound from around his drink. The glass thunked down onto the bartop when he finished. "Thought you might have gotten yourself lost."
"Twice," America chirped, and shucked his jacket into his lap. "But I asked for directions. 'S the only time your people are ever friendly, you know that? When they're telling me how to go away faster."
"Londoners," England replied, a trace of fondness in his tone. He leaned over and rapped his knuckles against the bar, attracting the attention of the young lady cleaning glasses. "Another, miss, if you will?" He looked over his shoulder at America. "What are you drinking?"
"You always yell at me when I try and order anything in your bars." America rubbed a hand through his hair.
"Because you order beer that scarcely deserves the label. And you get upset when you're served a pint of bitter that isn't cold. It doesn't come cold, America."
"Just gimme whatever he's having," America addressed to the girl, wry.
He slouched one elbow over the bar and looked back at England. A second passed.
"So, uh."
"'Uh', indeed," England said dryly. He watched the steady rush of Guinness into his glass over at the tap. "The two of you have been quite busy over the past several days."
"Yeah, well, that's why I'm here." America propped his cheek on his fist. A few strands of hair floated into his eyes. "If me and Russia are gonna blow up the world, I figured I should at least buy you a drink first."
"How very kind of you." England sat up, and accepted both glasses back from the barmaid. He set America's down carefully in front of him. Foam shivered at the very tops of their drinks. "And you've done everything you can? Truly made every effort? --Or are we all going to die as a result of your pride?"
"What am I, nine?" America dragged his drink in front of him and grimaced. "Yeah, I've tried. You know, this has really got nothing to do with pride."
"Doesn't it?" England frowned at him. "Both you and Russia would rather go to war than lose face. If that's not pride, I don't know what is."
"Forget it," America muttered, and sucked at his drink.
They drank in silence for a while, patrons clattering and laughing around them.
Finally, half a pint later, England turned at the waist and propped his head on his fist; looked at America. "What is it about, then?"
America sighed against the lip of his glass. It sent ripples across the surface of his beer. "I don't know."
He worked the taste of beer in his mouth, then put down his drink and dropped his head between his hands, pinned by his temples. "We've got this whole...whole...thing. I don't know. It's not pride," he repeated. He glanced half-sideways at England. "Like...I'm not gonna pretend there's not some of that in there, too, but like..." How the hell was he supposed to explain it? "It's like..." He bit his lip, eyebrows drawn together. "I mean, Christ, you know me and Russia have been weird for...like, sixty fucking years..."
God, it had been sixty years.
England rubbed an idle finger along the seam of his sweater cuff. "And this...this impasse stems from that, as opposed to--simple stubbornness." Doubt hung heavy in his voice.
America glared at England and snatched up his drink again. "I know you've got a whole lot of opinion about me and being stubborn, but you want to give me a tiny bit of credit? I wouldn't nuke Russia out of stubborn." That thought again--nuking Russia--hurting Russia. A dark squeeze went off in his heart.
"I have a modicum of faith in you. Less so in Russia. You may not start a war as a matter of pride, but I find it hard to believe that he wouldn't."
"He doesn't want to hurt me, either," America ground out. What was with this beer? It sat in his stomach as heavy as lead.
"And yet, here we are."
America shrugged, and tried another sip of the stuff. "Wouldn't expect you to understand" echoed against the back rim of his glass.
England's eyes narrowed. He caught America's gaze when the other nation lowered his drink. "Try me."
America was silent for about half a minute: he watched the liquor in his glass, the dull shine on the bar. Listened to England's people move around behind him. His mouth stuck shut for a second when he tried to talk. "I love Russia, okay." It was soft. "And--and he loves me back. But we just keep...doing it wrong, I don't know." A hesitation: a long, trembling breath let out through his nose. "I mean...we try and get closer, but we always fuck it up. And then I get upset, and he gets defensive, and the whole thing turns to shit, and then somebody pulls out a gun, usually me--it's usually me," he admitted.
"…I see." A heavy furrow opened between England's eyebrows, the way it always did when he was--weighing his words. There was a long silence. "Have you...Have you ever considered that loving him isn't enough? Despite what every one of your films has told you, America, the world doesn't move for love."
America's glass gave a crack as he lowered it to the bar. "You want to try not talking down to me for five minutes?"
"I'm sorry, it's difficult not to talk down to someone who is effectively threatening to commit suicide!" Heads turned across the bar, and England's voice dropped in response: low, but every bit as harsh. "I want to help you, but I don't know what you want me to say. Are you looking for honesty? Because I can give you that right now. But if you just want to know that I'm on your side in all of this, then you needn't have come at all. I'm always on your--"
"Maybe I would want an honest opinion, if your honest opinions weren't always 'America, shut up and do what I tell you,'" America hissed, his fingers tightening around the handle of his glass. His heart sped up, heated, he felt his teeth tighten. "You asked me what was going on and I'm trying to explain! Damn it, I know being in love isn't enough, I mean, we've only broken up like five times, obviously being in love isn't--"
"Or perhaps you could try staying apart," England snapped. He shoved his glass away, too rough, but managed to catch it before it overturned. His fingers pulsed around it, and he took a hard, steadying breath. The next time he spoke, the snarl had slunk away. "I understand that you want to keep trying...You always want to keep trying, whether it's with Russia or anything else...But it's...It's not worth it." He caught America's shirt cuff before he could interrupt. "And not because it has to do with the two of you. There's simply too much at stake."
America worked his jaw. Something in--something in what England had said gave America a hard tug of déjà-vu. "Russia said something like that," he stated. "Or--well, Russia was trying to say something like that."
England sat back on his stool. "What exactly did he say?"
Something dwindled in America, left him a little cold. He wet his lips. "That...that we shouldn't try...because maybe we were forcing something. Or...something." America rallied. "But Russia's always saying shit like that, he's been trying to push me away all along, because he's, he's--totally petrified of being vulnerable to anybody, and of people being nice to him, I mean, he's got--he's got issues, okay--" A short breath. "And he said we should keep the missile crisis deal thing all political, like, all business, even though, like, how could it not be personal, everything with us is personal…"
England's glass only had a bit of foam left, but he picked it up anyway, sucked down that last inch. "He may have ulterior motives, but I believe he's right. The politics between you and Russia have been rocky for decades now, and you can't tell me that isn't, in part, due to your...emotional entanglement."
"He's right," America repeated. "You're telling me Russia is right. He's been pulling this same shit with me for like a hundred fucking years--"
"And look where ignoring it's got you." It was almost too soft to catch over the clatter of the pub.
America's stomach sank. His...his throat ached, all of a sudden. "But that's...no, England."
A little spell of quiet, of clattering glasses.
"...I mean, we cared about each other, we--I-I love him," America faltered. "That's not--and he loves me too, he finally admitted it, it's not--it's not wrong to try and make things work…is it?"
"Not wrong, no," England murmured. "But love alone is not a good enough reason to keep trying. If you go on like you have been, choking in your politics, next time..." He stopped. "I'm sorry, that's not right. America, if you don't make some kind of change, I don't believe there will be a next time."
America slouched an inch over his beer. He didn't...he didn't want to drink anymore. Or he wanted to drink something a lot stronger than this.
When he spoke, his voice was loud but--fragile. "So, so what am I supposed to do, just...ignore how we feel? Like, all the time? Stop--stop spending time together, just...keep it strictly business?" His stomach lurched.
England hesitated--the flicker showed in his eyes--then placed a hand on America's forearm; squeezed. "Can you think of a better way?"
"I..." America's voice cracked.
He met England's gaze. "I don't want to hurt him," he pleaded. "I-I mean--I don't want to go to war with him, I don't--I don't--"
"You may not have to, if you can manage this," England replied. His fingers tapped against America's sleeve. "You'll need to make Russia agree with you."
"Russia already agrees," America mumbled, miserable. He scrubbed his hair off his forehead, and it fell right back down. "Russia's been trying to convince me this all isn't worth it for ages."
The bar had begun to go quiet, and the air seemed to coalesce around just the two of them: warm and close and heavy with the scent of liquor. "Do you think so, too?" England asked, as gentle as he ever got. "Or are you simply out of options?"
There was something heavy and muzzy and unhappy pressing down on the back of America's head. He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. "Well...it's not like my way worked, did it?" There was still a fragile note of longing in his voice, a little hope. "I mean...sure, we love each other, and we both know it, that's great. But we're still all set to blow each other's heads off. Maybe..." In some dim, too-hot corner of his mind, America couldn't believe he was saying this. "Maybe Russia really is right. Maybe we should...should..." He blew out an unsteady breath. "Concentrate on something that doesn't make us so...emotional."
"Russia rather likes to think that he's entirely invulnerable, doesn't he? He'll adapt to this easily enough. But you...I believe this is something that you will truly have to commit to." England watched him, his fingers quiet in America's sleeve. "For your own sake, as much as Russia's, or mine, or that of the rest of the world."
America looked down into his hands. "It wouldn't have to be forever, or anything," he tried, quiet. "I mean...if, if we're all business, then...things should stop getting so out of hand. And--and eventually, our relations--o-our business relations, um, our politics--they should normalize, right?" It was faint. "And then we could. We could see where we wanted to go with it."
England nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose. But your politics may not change for a long time, no matter how detached you are from your relations. It could be decades. Maybe more. You need to be prepared for that."
America's heart compressed, thundered. He folded his arms on the bar and propped his chin on his wrists, and stared into the dark gold of his glass. "I hate this, England," he whispered.
"I know." England touched America once more, on the shoulder. It was halting, a bit awkward--England being comforting always was--but genuine. "But you know it's what needs to be done."
+++
--No footnotes this chapter you guys, we are seriously freaking out.
+++
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.