62 - Under Grey Towers
Title: Under Grey Towers
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1971 - A new winter, a new detente, and a new chance to try and get things right. Or at least not get them too wrong.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Grand Forks, North Dakota. November 15, 1971.
"So, yeah, these are the Minuteman ICBM silos, plus there's another...fifty-ish Sprint missiles spread out in four other remote silos--sorry, I'm totally not BS-ing you right now, I seriously don't remember how many there are. It's about fifty..."
America gestured at the silos with his steaming cardboard coffee cup as they strolled side by side down long asphalt avenues. Russia watched him sidelong. It was the onset of winter once again, and America seemed to think it was cold. He took quick sips of coffee as he talked, steam spilling across his lips, and he turned the cup back and forth between his hands to keep them warm. For Russia, it was not cold. The trees lining the distant parking lot were stripped to bare black fingers, but no snow had fallen yet this year.
"So yeah, this is the facility we're trying to cover with the Safeguard system," America went on. He winced for a second as he bolted too much coffee. "Not that it's up yet, I mean, you know that already, we can go up there next if you want? There's seriously nothing to see, though, it's really boring. So expensive, but really boring. And Safeguard's the only antiballistic missile system I've got right now. Not that I've got it, 'cause it's not done, like I said."
Russia nodded. America's nose, his ears, his cheeks, were red with cold, and his bomber jacket was zipped up to his chin. He chattered and smiled and patted the side of a silo as they ambled past it. Russia nursed a quiet ember inside his ribs.
"You know, it's kind of weird how we have all these agreements to not have too many ABM systems, and that's a way to cut down on missiles? Like, you'd think having more ABMs would make us want to have less missiles, 'cause like, oh, you can shoot missiles out of the sky now, well, I guess that means all these missiles aren't so useful after all. But then instead, it's like, 'oh shit, well, if you can block fifty missiles, I'd better be able to send five hundred' and isn't it weird, how totally irrational we get about this stuff?"
America took a more careful sip of coffee and looked up at Russia, pleased.
Russia waited a few seconds to be certain America was finished speaking, then wet his lips. "But over time I think we have become more rational. There was a time when we behaved as though missiles had an expiration date. Do you remember, how we scrambled for more and better? Now we don't need to scramble. I know that I can go home to my scientists and ask them for a hundred more, and I can have them by Sunday. You can do the same." Russia glanced up the body of the silo, grey and towering like a windowless skyscraper. He smiled faintly. "It is a more sophisticated competition."
America smirked around the lip of his coffee cup. "I don't know, you kind of make it sound like ordering a pizza. That's not too sophisticated."
Russia peered further up the concrete column. "I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. You are the authority on ordering pizzas."
America stopped as if stricken. "You don't have pizza delivery in the Soviet Union?" He swayed and stared in sightless horror at the walkway ahead of them. "But...how do you live?"
Russia chuckled. "We manage. I could just as easily ask you how you survive on that pathetic excuse for coffee. It is nearly all hot water."
America hitched on a laugh, took a swallow, and pitched his shoulders back against the upswept concrete wall of the silo. His jacket rumpled around his shoulders. "God, you and France, such fucking, what, such fucking coffee snobs. And then England, with his tea...I've got one word for you guys:" America stabbed his coffee forward with one finger struck out around the cup. "Coca-Cola. King of beverages."
America sipped. There was a pause of not quite a second. Then he tried, "Does the hyphen make it two words?"
The question--such a ridiculous question--cut Russia open, sharp and painless. He gave America a flickering smile and turned to face him. Tucked his hands into his pockets. "I don't think so," he murmured. "But I have missed your questions."
Something warm slid into America's smile. He canted his head and shrugged his hair out of his face. "I ask you questions all the time, though." America's right heel crossed over his left toe, and the thumb of his free hand hooked into his jeans pocket. Russia had never met anyone who could slouch so proficiently. "Like 'what are you doing' and 'why are you doing that,' and 'where did you hear that, I never heard about that,' and 'what are you eating,' and 'what does that mean, those aren't real letters'--"
"I meant the questions you ask because you are curious, not because you want to irritate me." America's thumb tugged the waistband of his jeans down an inch. Russia tried to stop looking and shifted his weight on the slab of cement walkway beneath his shoes.
America laughed and finished his coffee. He tossed the empty cup off to the side, where it clattered and rolled and stopped at the join of the silo and the sidewalk. "Oh come on, that's kind of harsh. I'm always curious about what you're eating. Especially if it sounds good. And I can have some. You almost never let me have some," America added, a tiny bit reproachful.
"That is because you eat all of it," Russia replied.
"But I get really hungry!" America protested. He wriggled his shoulders an inch against the silo to a rasp of leather on concrete. "We've been doing these negotiations for two years and you've let me steal your food twice. I mean..." America glanced down the sidewalk and scratched the side of his nose, but Russia noticed that tightness at the corner of America's mouth; that was how he contained a smile-- "I thought we were supposed to be demonstrating our willingness to cooperate, Russia."
"I did cooperate. Twice," Russia returned mildly. He tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and watched the flush on America's cheeks. Even in North Dakota, at the onset of a new winter, America would not feel cold to Russia.
America's gaze swung back to him; he smiled, a little. "The SALT talks really have gone pretty well, huh? I mean...we've argued about stuff, but it was just...business stuff."
"Yes," Russia murmured.
A beat. America tried, tentative: "We've been good."
Russia stilled. His eyes crept up to America's. He heard his heart beat, and the far-off whistle of wind through the creaking black branches. "Yes," he managed. "We have."
America watched him, still smiling, slouched against a Spartan missile silo. He prompted, gentle: "I've missed you."
Russia was very aware of how the air tightened and released his lungs for several breaths. "I've missed you, too."
He watched his hand drift out and knot into the shoulder of America's jacket. Both of them braced: the shock tore all the way down Russia's arm to his heart. They stared at each other for long seconds, two, three seconds: a very long time.
America nudged off the wall, folded his arms around Russia's shoulders, tight, and kissed him.
A shuddering breath caught between them. It hurt, beatifully: there was America's skin, and his taste, and the way he twisted a bit when Russia tried to hold him down, just like before. Russia's eyes stung, and he held his breath as America's warmth spread into him. He closed a hand on the back of America's neck, just a bit too tight, and held him up into their kisses.
"Oh God." America's voice was hushed. Russia nodded against him.
America knotted his hands in the back of Russia's collar and scrambled up into an arch. Their bulky coats rumpled between them and made the shape of America's body indistinct. The rim of America's glasses kissed Russia's cheek and made a silver line of chill as they pressed themselves together--
Russia broke back an inch, plucked America's glasses off his face, and folded them into his coat pocket. America blinked up at him, his eyes as blue as the sky above them wasn't, and kissed him again. He caught Russia's hand to guide him up beneath his collar, clumsy and hot, to the side of his neck and that scar.
It struck a bolt to the pit of Russia's stomach: he had never touched it. He would watch for it, as America slumped in his chair, collar unbuttoned, his fingertips circling that mark in a distant trance...
Russia brushed the pad of his thumb across it: it was soft and puffed up and smooth. He touched his nails into it. His breath cracked.
A sweet, sharp whine slid past America's lips. He broke the kiss, braced his forehead against Russia's collarbone, and seethed in shivery breaths. His neck bent smooth and sharp beneath Russia's hand. "Missed you," he whispered again. "I-I missed you so much."
Russia clung to him. Kissed across his hair. "I-I never slept," he exhaled.
America flinched in his arms, an all-over cringe: and then, hushed, "Do you still love me?"
Russia trembled, cold and barely felt. He was--He was out of practice, and his lungs spasmed, once, frantic. He buried his mouth against the the corner of America's jaw and shut his eyes. "...Yes." Barely a whisper.
America exhaled in a shock. He dug one hand into Russia's hair and bore him down into a bruising kiss. They staggered a hard step into the side of the silo, gasping, grasping. America was trembling from--
--From the cold.
"Did you--" Russia gasped, lost his words on America's lips; he tried again. "Did you think I would stop?"
"I-I don't know--" America begged; he clawed Russia's coat open and dragged himself inside of it. The side drapes swung in against the wall of the missile silo. A breath-stopped tremble of laughter: "'S always a little touch and go, with you..."
Russia pushed America hard against the wall, weighed him down with his bulk and wrapped him in his coat. He sucked down quiet, dark breaths for a few seconds, then pressed a kiss to that scar.
"We can--" America kissed the turn of Russia's jaw, just above his scarf, kissed that electric spot just behind his ear. Russia flinched, weak and warming. America knotted his hands into Russia's clothes. "--Have this, now? Right? We--I-I think we can be, um, can be professional, a-and--and we've been so good, Russia, we've been--we've both been--"
"We have--We have, I know--But--" Russia exhaled against America's neck, nuzzled and kissed and ran the tip of his tongue across that puffed-up scar; memorized it, added it to his internal picture of America. "I-I don't want to hurt you again," he managed. "Aren't you afraid I will?"
America's fingers tightened in Russia's hair. "If it looks like you might, we'll talk about it," he breathed. "And--same goes for me? I-I don't want to hurt you and I still love you too--"
A jerk, under his ribs. Russia nodded frantically and broke back, looked into America's face. "I was jealous," he whispered.
America kissed the corner of his mouth, his temple, dragged their hips together, and giggled, rushed and breathless, "Oh God, do you have any idea how many times I almost fucking decked France? And he knew it, the son of a bitch--"
"He told me." Russia interlocked their legs, arranged it so they could push flush together, the silo bracing America up. "H--he knew I liked to hear it..."
America wriggled an inch beneath him, pulsed them hard together. He bit Russia's lower lip and exhaled, "Am I allowed to be jealous, now?"
He pressed Russia's hand flush against his scar. Russia cupped America's neck, dragged his palm cool and wide over that mark. It was all the Mine they needed.
They clung to each other against the silo wall for a while, kissing, rushing together, small caught noises spun out between them as the prows of their ribs bore in. America leaned into Russia's hand on his throat. His mouth turned flushed, full, as his air narrowed, aching and red; his trembling returned, even worse.
Maybe it wasn't the cold.
Russia paused, his teeth light on America's swollen lower lip. They were winced tight into one another, hand to neck, arm around waist, but--America kept nudging in, forcing Russia's fingers to tighten and paint white pressure points in a necklace around his throat. A strangely glowing thing kindled alive in Russia's chest, and he pulled away to meet America's eyes.
He squeezed.
A wracking shudder broke down America's back, and his back lept in an arch off the silo wall. He clamped one hand around Russia's wrist, but he didn't push him away. He knotted his other hand deeper into Russia's hair and just--just--held on.
There was nothing else to be done. Russia took a slow, clean breath, adjusted his hand on America's throat, and pushed. America's eyes widened, his flush deepened. He opened against Russia.
Russia ground them together. "Come back with me to my room," he whispered. He thought he might be trembling, too.
America nodded, frantic, turning scarlet. His hips throbbed against Russia's. A few strands of golden hair drifted across his forehead. He mouthed, Missed you.
Russia nodded, accepted it, though it hurt to his bones.
He kissed the flush of America's temple and watched, fascinated and tender, as he eased back and allowed the first cool rush of air back into America's lungs. A sweet blue wave of weakness tripped down America's skeleton, and he settled back onto his heels, coughing quietly, still hot and limber under Russia's hand. When he looked up--and it took him many seconds to look up--it was with a sweet, confused yearning.
Russia couldn't speak. He gripped America around the shoulders instead, and held him tight, close and coughing against his body. America tugged on the front of Russia's shirt. "Let's go," he rasped. Nuzzled his cheek against Russia's hand. "I don't...I'll tell you the rest of the--" Another spate of coughing. "--Stuff about the missiles later?"
Russia blinked, looked around. He had forgotten all about the missiles, save for the single silo America was trapped against. Concrete grit scraped under his fingernails as he braced a hand on it, levered them both up, his other arm still fastened low and tight around America's waist. "Later," he echoed. "It's not...important."
They clung to each other all the way to Russia's car. Breath skipping, fingers knotted in each other's clothes, they left together.
+++
--The Strategic Arms Limitations Talks (SALT) were two years of bilateral talks and corresponding treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union on the subject of arms control. SALT 1 went from November 1969 to May 1972 and resulted in the first Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. The SALT talks began a new era of detente between the US and the USSR.
+++
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: 1971 - A new winter, a new detente, and a new chance to try and get things right. Or at least not get them too wrong.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Grand Forks, North Dakota. November 15, 1971.
"So, yeah, these are the Minuteman ICBM silos, plus there's another...fifty-ish Sprint missiles spread out in four other remote silos--sorry, I'm totally not BS-ing you right now, I seriously don't remember how many there are. It's about fifty..."
America gestured at the silos with his steaming cardboard coffee cup as they strolled side by side down long asphalt avenues. Russia watched him sidelong. It was the onset of winter once again, and America seemed to think it was cold. He took quick sips of coffee as he talked, steam spilling across his lips, and he turned the cup back and forth between his hands to keep them warm. For Russia, it was not cold. The trees lining the distant parking lot were stripped to bare black fingers, but no snow had fallen yet this year.
"So yeah, this is the facility we're trying to cover with the Safeguard system," America went on. He winced for a second as he bolted too much coffee. "Not that it's up yet, I mean, you know that already, we can go up there next if you want? There's seriously nothing to see, though, it's really boring. So expensive, but really boring. And Safeguard's the only antiballistic missile system I've got right now. Not that I've got it, 'cause it's not done, like I said."
Russia nodded. America's nose, his ears, his cheeks, were red with cold, and his bomber jacket was zipped up to his chin. He chattered and smiled and patted the side of a silo as they ambled past it. Russia nursed a quiet ember inside his ribs.
"You know, it's kind of weird how we have all these agreements to not have too many ABM systems, and that's a way to cut down on missiles? Like, you'd think having more ABMs would make us want to have less missiles, 'cause like, oh, you can shoot missiles out of the sky now, well, I guess that means all these missiles aren't so useful after all. But then instead, it's like, 'oh shit, well, if you can block fifty missiles, I'd better be able to send five hundred' and isn't it weird, how totally irrational we get about this stuff?"
America took a more careful sip of coffee and looked up at Russia, pleased.
Russia waited a few seconds to be certain America was finished speaking, then wet his lips. "But over time I think we have become more rational. There was a time when we behaved as though missiles had an expiration date. Do you remember, how we scrambled for more and better? Now we don't need to scramble. I know that I can go home to my scientists and ask them for a hundred more, and I can have them by Sunday. You can do the same." Russia glanced up the body of the silo, grey and towering like a windowless skyscraper. He smiled faintly. "It is a more sophisticated competition."
America smirked around the lip of his coffee cup. "I don't know, you kind of make it sound like ordering a pizza. That's not too sophisticated."
Russia peered further up the concrete column. "I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. You are the authority on ordering pizzas."
America stopped as if stricken. "You don't have pizza delivery in the Soviet Union?" He swayed and stared in sightless horror at the walkway ahead of them. "But...how do you live?"
Russia chuckled. "We manage. I could just as easily ask you how you survive on that pathetic excuse for coffee. It is nearly all hot water."
America hitched on a laugh, took a swallow, and pitched his shoulders back against the upswept concrete wall of the silo. His jacket rumpled around his shoulders. "God, you and France, such fucking, what, such fucking coffee snobs. And then England, with his tea...I've got one word for you guys:" America stabbed his coffee forward with one finger struck out around the cup. "Coca-Cola. King of beverages."
America sipped. There was a pause of not quite a second. Then he tried, "Does the hyphen make it two words?"
The question--such a ridiculous question--cut Russia open, sharp and painless. He gave America a flickering smile and turned to face him. Tucked his hands into his pockets. "I don't think so," he murmured. "But I have missed your questions."
Something warm slid into America's smile. He canted his head and shrugged his hair out of his face. "I ask you questions all the time, though." America's right heel crossed over his left toe, and the thumb of his free hand hooked into his jeans pocket. Russia had never met anyone who could slouch so proficiently. "Like 'what are you doing' and 'why are you doing that,' and 'where did you hear that, I never heard about that,' and 'what are you eating,' and 'what does that mean, those aren't real letters'--"
"I meant the questions you ask because you are curious, not because you want to irritate me." America's thumb tugged the waistband of his jeans down an inch. Russia tried to stop looking and shifted his weight on the slab of cement walkway beneath his shoes.
America laughed and finished his coffee. He tossed the empty cup off to the side, where it clattered and rolled and stopped at the join of the silo and the sidewalk. "Oh come on, that's kind of harsh. I'm always curious about what you're eating. Especially if it sounds good. And I can have some. You almost never let me have some," America added, a tiny bit reproachful.
"That is because you eat all of it," Russia replied.
"But I get really hungry!" America protested. He wriggled his shoulders an inch against the silo to a rasp of leather on concrete. "We've been doing these negotiations for two years and you've let me steal your food twice. I mean..." America glanced down the sidewalk and scratched the side of his nose, but Russia noticed that tightness at the corner of America's mouth; that was how he contained a smile-- "I thought we were supposed to be demonstrating our willingness to cooperate, Russia."
"I did cooperate. Twice," Russia returned mildly. He tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and watched the flush on America's cheeks. Even in North Dakota, at the onset of a new winter, America would not feel cold to Russia.
America's gaze swung back to him; he smiled, a little. "The SALT talks really have gone pretty well, huh? I mean...we've argued about stuff, but it was just...business stuff."
"Yes," Russia murmured.
A beat. America tried, tentative: "We've been good."
Russia stilled. His eyes crept up to America's. He heard his heart beat, and the far-off whistle of wind through the creaking black branches. "Yes," he managed. "We have."
America watched him, still smiling, slouched against a Spartan missile silo. He prompted, gentle: "I've missed you."
Russia was very aware of how the air tightened and released his lungs for several breaths. "I've missed you, too."
He watched his hand drift out and knot into the shoulder of America's jacket. Both of them braced: the shock tore all the way down Russia's arm to his heart. They stared at each other for long seconds, two, three seconds: a very long time.
America nudged off the wall, folded his arms around Russia's shoulders, tight, and kissed him.
A shuddering breath caught between them. It hurt, beatifully: there was America's skin, and his taste, and the way he twisted a bit when Russia tried to hold him down, just like before. Russia's eyes stung, and he held his breath as America's warmth spread into him. He closed a hand on the back of America's neck, just a bit too tight, and held him up into their kisses.
"Oh God." America's voice was hushed. Russia nodded against him.
America knotted his hands in the back of Russia's collar and scrambled up into an arch. Their bulky coats rumpled between them and made the shape of America's body indistinct. The rim of America's glasses kissed Russia's cheek and made a silver line of chill as they pressed themselves together--
Russia broke back an inch, plucked America's glasses off his face, and folded them into his coat pocket. America blinked up at him, his eyes as blue as the sky above them wasn't, and kissed him again. He caught Russia's hand to guide him up beneath his collar, clumsy and hot, to the side of his neck and that scar.
It struck a bolt to the pit of Russia's stomach: he had never touched it. He would watch for it, as America slumped in his chair, collar unbuttoned, his fingertips circling that mark in a distant trance...
Russia brushed the pad of his thumb across it: it was soft and puffed up and smooth. He touched his nails into it. His breath cracked.
A sweet, sharp whine slid past America's lips. He broke the kiss, braced his forehead against Russia's collarbone, and seethed in shivery breaths. His neck bent smooth and sharp beneath Russia's hand. "Missed you," he whispered again. "I-I missed you so much."
Russia clung to him. Kissed across his hair. "I-I never slept," he exhaled.
America flinched in his arms, an all-over cringe: and then, hushed, "Do you still love me?"
Russia trembled, cold and barely felt. He was--He was out of practice, and his lungs spasmed, once, frantic. He buried his mouth against the the corner of America's jaw and shut his eyes. "...Yes." Barely a whisper.
America exhaled in a shock. He dug one hand into Russia's hair and bore him down into a bruising kiss. They staggered a hard step into the side of the silo, gasping, grasping. America was trembling from--
--From the cold.
"Did you--" Russia gasped, lost his words on America's lips; he tried again. "Did you think I would stop?"
"I-I don't know--" America begged; he clawed Russia's coat open and dragged himself inside of it. The side drapes swung in against the wall of the missile silo. A breath-stopped tremble of laughter: "'S always a little touch and go, with you..."
Russia pushed America hard against the wall, weighed him down with his bulk and wrapped him in his coat. He sucked down quiet, dark breaths for a few seconds, then pressed a kiss to that scar.
"We can--" America kissed the turn of Russia's jaw, just above his scarf, kissed that electric spot just behind his ear. Russia flinched, weak and warming. America knotted his hands into Russia's clothes. "--Have this, now? Right? We--I-I think we can be, um, can be professional, a-and--and we've been so good, Russia, we've been--we've both been--"
"We have--We have, I know--But--" Russia exhaled against America's neck, nuzzled and kissed and ran the tip of his tongue across that puffed-up scar; memorized it, added it to his internal picture of America. "I-I don't want to hurt you again," he managed. "Aren't you afraid I will?"
America's fingers tightened in Russia's hair. "If it looks like you might, we'll talk about it," he breathed. "And--same goes for me? I-I don't want to hurt you and I still love you too--"
A jerk, under his ribs. Russia nodded frantically and broke back, looked into America's face. "I was jealous," he whispered.
America kissed the corner of his mouth, his temple, dragged their hips together, and giggled, rushed and breathless, "Oh God, do you have any idea how many times I almost fucking decked France? And he knew it, the son of a bitch--"
"He told me." Russia interlocked their legs, arranged it so they could push flush together, the silo bracing America up. "H--he knew I liked to hear it..."
America wriggled an inch beneath him, pulsed them hard together. He bit Russia's lower lip and exhaled, "Am I allowed to be jealous, now?"
He pressed Russia's hand flush against his scar. Russia cupped America's neck, dragged his palm cool and wide over that mark. It was all the Mine they needed.
They clung to each other against the silo wall for a while, kissing, rushing together, small caught noises spun out between them as the prows of their ribs bore in. America leaned into Russia's hand on his throat. His mouth turned flushed, full, as his air narrowed, aching and red; his trembling returned, even worse.
Maybe it wasn't the cold.
Russia paused, his teeth light on America's swollen lower lip. They were winced tight into one another, hand to neck, arm around waist, but--America kept nudging in, forcing Russia's fingers to tighten and paint white pressure points in a necklace around his throat. A strangely glowing thing kindled alive in Russia's chest, and he pulled away to meet America's eyes.
He squeezed.
A wracking shudder broke down America's back, and his back lept in an arch off the silo wall. He clamped one hand around Russia's wrist, but he didn't push him away. He knotted his other hand deeper into Russia's hair and just--just--held on.
There was nothing else to be done. Russia took a slow, clean breath, adjusted his hand on America's throat, and pushed. America's eyes widened, his flush deepened. He opened against Russia.
Russia ground them together. "Come back with me to my room," he whispered. He thought he might be trembling, too.
America nodded, frantic, turning scarlet. His hips throbbed against Russia's. A few strands of golden hair drifted across his forehead. He mouthed, Missed you.
Russia nodded, accepted it, though it hurt to his bones.
He kissed the flush of America's temple and watched, fascinated and tender, as he eased back and allowed the first cool rush of air back into America's lungs. A sweet blue wave of weakness tripped down America's skeleton, and he settled back onto his heels, coughing quietly, still hot and limber under Russia's hand. When he looked up--and it took him many seconds to look up--it was with a sweet, confused yearning.
Russia couldn't speak. He gripped America around the shoulders instead, and held him tight, close and coughing against his body. America tugged on the front of Russia's shirt. "Let's go," he rasped. Nuzzled his cheek against Russia's hand. "I don't...I'll tell you the rest of the--" Another spate of coughing. "--Stuff about the missiles later?"
Russia blinked, looked around. He had forgotten all about the missiles, save for the single silo America was trapped against. Concrete grit scraped under his fingernails as he braced a hand on it, levered them both up, his other arm still fastened low and tight around America's waist. "Later," he echoed. "It's not...important."
They clung to each other all the way to Russia's car. Breath skipping, fingers knotted in each other's clothes, they left together.
+++
--The Strategic Arms Limitations Talks (SALT) were two years of bilateral talks and corresponding treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union on the subject of arms control. SALT 1 went from November 1969 to May 1972 and resulted in the first Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. The SALT talks began a new era of detente between the US and the USSR.
+++
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.