64 - And So You're Back From Outer Space
Title: And So You're Back From Outer Space
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Summary: 1979 - The Soviet occupation of Afghanistan signals the end of the Détente, and America brings back Russia's things.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. December 27, 1979.
The sudden sweep of snowy cold when Russia answered the door was enough to make him shiver. His face and hands were still warm from the fire. He blinked at America. "It is the middle of the winter. Why do you never wear gloves?"
"They make my hands itchy," America said. He adjusted a cardboard box against his chest. "Can I come in? It's really cold."
Russia stepped aside. Squinted at the box. A snowflake caught in his eyelashes. "What do you have in there?"
America squeezed past him and thumped the door shut with his hip. He chafed his hands one at a time against his jeans, then batted that snowflake away. Russia withdrew an inch on reflex. "Your stuff, mostly."
A heavy, leaden throb in Russia's gut. Well. That hadn't taken long. His forces had only secured Kabul a few hours ago. "Along with every gift I've ever given you, I imagine," he snarled, and thumped across the carpet to the fire. He kept his back to America.
America shook the snowflakes out of his hair and hustled after him. He dumped the box into Russia's chair. "No, it's not like that. This is just a thing, you know?"
Russia crossed his arms. The back of his neck went tense. "A thing."
America dropped to one knee in front of the fire and stretched his hands out towards the grill. His fingertips were stained scarlet. "But I seriously can't fucking believe you did this on Christmas Eve," he went on. "Do you just...hate joy, or something? Like, does it give you hives?"
Russia scowled down at the firelit halo around America's hair. "I haven't celebrated Christmas in decades. Would you like me to time my wars so they won't interfere with your holidays?"
America grinned up at him over his shoulder. "Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
Russia's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you are missing some dysfunctional family gathering to be here right now, and I would very much like to get back to my book. So I would appreciate it if you came to the point." He flicked a look into the open box. Swallowed. America had gathered up everything, hadn't he?
America unzipped his jacket and stood. His glasses defogged. He tilted his head down towards the box. "Well, I mean, there's your stuff. With this whole invasion thing you're doing, you know, it's probably going to be tough for us to spend a lot of time at each other's houses for a while. We could hang out in neutral places? Although I know there aren't a whole lot of those left, but we'll work something out..." America's voice faded. He shifted his weight heavy over his right foot. "I just figured you'd want your stuff back before things got awkward."
Only a very few of America's words stuck between Russia's ears. He frowned. Placed a hand on the back of his armchair. Took a breath. "Neutral places? I--" He followed America's gaze back to the box, and felt a flutter in his throat. "You still want to see me? --Because if you think I am going to change my plans in Afghanistan--"
"No, no no no--" America tugged on the ends of Russia's scarf with a smile. "That's--that's business, right? And we're professional about business. You know, like--businesslike?"
Russia blinked at him, once, slow. A soft red hum rose in his ears.
America rolled his eyes with a grin and added, "I mean like, that war doesn't even involve me."
Russia could almost hear the Yet. He sighed, "And you are very good at staying out of conflicts that don't concern you." He smoothed down the collar of America's coat with heavy fingers. He wondered if he wasn't slightly dizzy.
"I know, right? Elbowing my way into some nasty little war you're in with a third party, that doesn't even sound like me--" America tangled their fingers together and bussed his forehead up against Russia's. "Are you relieved? You're so dumb sometimes, like I was just gonna dump you over Afghanistan..."
Russia shrugged. But his hand tightened around America's. "You had a box. It is snowing. You brought back my toothbrush. Isn't that how those kinds of things tend to go?"
"It's always snowing, we're in Moscow." America pushed onto the balls of his feet and kissed the corner of Russia's mouth. "And your Christmas present is in the box, too."
Russia caught him by the back of the head and held him in, tight. Kissed him a little fuller and a little deeper than he meant to. His fingers were cramping in America's hair, and when he finally broke away, his breath came short: "I told you, I don't celebrate Christmas."
America giggled and rolled his eyes again, and twined his fingers in the ends of Russia's hair. "Then it's a nondenominational Leninist well-wishing present, okay? Just open it."
Russia closed his eyes for a moment against a warm shiver. "What is it?"
"You really haven't done Christmas in a while, huh." America felt into the cardboard box and pulled out a bright red package, poorly wrapped, barely held together with a snarl of golden ribbon. "You're not supposed to ask, you're supposed to open it."
Russia let go of America and accepted the gift reluctantly. The wrapping crackled in his arms. He shredded it open in one long rip, top to bottom.
Stared in the firelight.
Finally: "America, who is Eric Clapton?"
America braced his hip against the arm of Russia's chair and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "That's the guy I had playing when you came over to my house last week, and you pretended that you weren't listening to it, but you kept tapping your feet under the table? And..." America canted his head sideways as Russia shuffled through the high stack of albums. "Fleetwood Mac is the band I put on after that, and you kept making up excuses to go back into the living room so you could hear it better, and--Aerosmith are the guys who wrote Walk This Way which you ended up humming for like three days straight at the last conference--"
"You were humming it first," Russia protested. "And I kept going into your living room because I thought you had left the television on."
Four times.
America stared at him for two seconds, a smile fixed on his face, then laughed. "Right, right, sure, you totally hate my music. You just listen to it all the time to make sure you still hate it? Oh, oh, and there's some Gloria Gaynor in here, too, you know, And now you're back--" America snapped one hand out to the side-- "--From outer space, I just came in to find you here with that sad look upon your face--"
It was always a jolt, when America's singing voice lept into a room. And it always caught Russia just under his lungs. Russia was close enough to hook a finger into America's belt loop, and so he did, and jerked him in. "You sound better than she does," he smirked.
Then flinched, when he realized what he'd said.
America's eyes widened in glee. "So you do listen to disco," he crowed, and slung his arms around Russia's shoulders before he could yank away. "Hey, hey, tell me the truth, did you watch Saturday Night Fever?"
"No. Despite all the evidence, I do still have some dignity left." Russia gripped America's waist out of habit, and felt the other nation's body heat sink into him through their clothes.
America dissolved into giggles. "You did. Oh my God, you totally did!" He hid a kiss behind Russia's ear.
Russia's spine twisted under it. "America," he gasped. "I would occupy Afghanistan by myself before I sat through an hour and a half of your people dancing in vinyl pants."
"You are invading Afghanistan by yourself." A glint in America's eyes--and then it vanished. "And Travolta rocked those pants, admit it."
Russia swallowed and relaxed again. "I'll admit nothing." He kneaded his fingers into the small of America's back. "But...you were very generous to bring me a present. A...A good present, even."
America drew back enough to show Russia his smile. "It's gonna be awkward, like I said. With this invasion. This detente thing is, you know, that's over with. But...we can be grown-ups, right?" America cuddled his fingers into Russia's scarf. "I don't want to miss you again, beautiful."
Russia's lips tightened at that word. He would never be used to it. But he drew the backs of his knuckles gently down the side of America's neck, and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure we can."
+++
--The Soviet-Afghan War began on December 24th, 1979, when Soviet troops entered Afghanistan after the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan requested Soviet assistance against the Mujahideen resistance (note: America calls it an invasion. Russia does not). The war would last for nearly ten years. America did not stay uninvolved. The day Soviet forces arrived in Kabul is generally seen as the end of the Détente.
--On a more cheerful note, rock music in the Soviet Union finally gained momentum in the 1970s due to increasing cultural influence from the West.
+++
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
Summary: 1979 - The Soviet occupation of Afghanistan signals the end of the Détente, and America brings back Russia's things.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. December 27, 1979.
The sudden sweep of snowy cold when Russia answered the door was enough to make him shiver. His face and hands were still warm from the fire. He blinked at America. "It is the middle of the winter. Why do you never wear gloves?"
"They make my hands itchy," America said. He adjusted a cardboard box against his chest. "Can I come in? It's really cold."
Russia stepped aside. Squinted at the box. A snowflake caught in his eyelashes. "What do you have in there?"
America squeezed past him and thumped the door shut with his hip. He chafed his hands one at a time against his jeans, then batted that snowflake away. Russia withdrew an inch on reflex. "Your stuff, mostly."
A heavy, leaden throb in Russia's gut. Well. That hadn't taken long. His forces had only secured Kabul a few hours ago. "Along with every gift I've ever given you, I imagine," he snarled, and thumped across the carpet to the fire. He kept his back to America.
America shook the snowflakes out of his hair and hustled after him. He dumped the box into Russia's chair. "No, it's not like that. This is just a thing, you know?"
Russia crossed his arms. The back of his neck went tense. "A thing."
America dropped to one knee in front of the fire and stretched his hands out towards the grill. His fingertips were stained scarlet. "But I seriously can't fucking believe you did this on Christmas Eve," he went on. "Do you just...hate joy, or something? Like, does it give you hives?"
Russia scowled down at the firelit halo around America's hair. "I haven't celebrated Christmas in decades. Would you like me to time my wars so they won't interfere with your holidays?"
America grinned up at him over his shoulder. "Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
Russia's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you are missing some dysfunctional family gathering to be here right now, and I would very much like to get back to my book. So I would appreciate it if you came to the point." He flicked a look into the open box. Swallowed. America had gathered up everything, hadn't he?
America unzipped his jacket and stood. His glasses defogged. He tilted his head down towards the box. "Well, I mean, there's your stuff. With this whole invasion thing you're doing, you know, it's probably going to be tough for us to spend a lot of time at each other's houses for a while. We could hang out in neutral places? Although I know there aren't a whole lot of those left, but we'll work something out..." America's voice faded. He shifted his weight heavy over his right foot. "I just figured you'd want your stuff back before things got awkward."
Only a very few of America's words stuck between Russia's ears. He frowned. Placed a hand on the back of his armchair. Took a breath. "Neutral places? I--" He followed America's gaze back to the box, and felt a flutter in his throat. "You still want to see me? --Because if you think I am going to change my plans in Afghanistan--"
"No, no no no--" America tugged on the ends of Russia's scarf with a smile. "That's--that's business, right? And we're professional about business. You know, like--businesslike?"
Russia blinked at him, once, slow. A soft red hum rose in his ears.
America rolled his eyes with a grin and added, "I mean like, that war doesn't even involve me."
Russia could almost hear the Yet. He sighed, "And you are very good at staying out of conflicts that don't concern you." He smoothed down the collar of America's coat with heavy fingers. He wondered if he wasn't slightly dizzy.
"I know, right? Elbowing my way into some nasty little war you're in with a third party, that doesn't even sound like me--" America tangled their fingers together and bussed his forehead up against Russia's. "Are you relieved? You're so dumb sometimes, like I was just gonna dump you over Afghanistan..."
Russia shrugged. But his hand tightened around America's. "You had a box. It is snowing. You brought back my toothbrush. Isn't that how those kinds of things tend to go?"
"It's always snowing, we're in Moscow." America pushed onto the balls of his feet and kissed the corner of Russia's mouth. "And your Christmas present is in the box, too."
Russia caught him by the back of the head and held him in, tight. Kissed him a little fuller and a little deeper than he meant to. His fingers were cramping in America's hair, and when he finally broke away, his breath came short: "I told you, I don't celebrate Christmas."
America giggled and rolled his eyes again, and twined his fingers in the ends of Russia's hair. "Then it's a nondenominational Leninist well-wishing present, okay? Just open it."
Russia closed his eyes for a moment against a warm shiver. "What is it?"
"You really haven't done Christmas in a while, huh." America felt into the cardboard box and pulled out a bright red package, poorly wrapped, barely held together with a snarl of golden ribbon. "You're not supposed to ask, you're supposed to open it."
Russia let go of America and accepted the gift reluctantly. The wrapping crackled in his arms. He shredded it open in one long rip, top to bottom.
Stared in the firelight.
Finally: "America, who is Eric Clapton?"
America braced his hip against the arm of Russia's chair and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "That's the guy I had playing when you came over to my house last week, and you pretended that you weren't listening to it, but you kept tapping your feet under the table? And..." America canted his head sideways as Russia shuffled through the high stack of albums. "Fleetwood Mac is the band I put on after that, and you kept making up excuses to go back into the living room so you could hear it better, and--Aerosmith are the guys who wrote Walk This Way which you ended up humming for like three days straight at the last conference--"
"You were humming it first," Russia protested. "And I kept going into your living room because I thought you had left the television on."
Four times.
America stared at him for two seconds, a smile fixed on his face, then laughed. "Right, right, sure, you totally hate my music. You just listen to it all the time to make sure you still hate it? Oh, oh, and there's some Gloria Gaynor in here, too, you know, And now you're back--" America snapped one hand out to the side-- "--From outer space, I just came in to find you here with that sad look upon your face--"
It was always a jolt, when America's singing voice lept into a room. And it always caught Russia just under his lungs. Russia was close enough to hook a finger into America's belt loop, and so he did, and jerked him in. "You sound better than she does," he smirked.
Then flinched, when he realized what he'd said.
America's eyes widened in glee. "So you do listen to disco," he crowed, and slung his arms around Russia's shoulders before he could yank away. "Hey, hey, tell me the truth, did you watch Saturday Night Fever?"
"No. Despite all the evidence, I do still have some dignity left." Russia gripped America's waist out of habit, and felt the other nation's body heat sink into him through their clothes.
America dissolved into giggles. "You did. Oh my God, you totally did!" He hid a kiss behind Russia's ear.
Russia's spine twisted under it. "America," he gasped. "I would occupy Afghanistan by myself before I sat through an hour and a half of your people dancing in vinyl pants."
"You are invading Afghanistan by yourself." A glint in America's eyes--and then it vanished. "And Travolta rocked those pants, admit it."
Russia swallowed and relaxed again. "I'll admit nothing." He kneaded his fingers into the small of America's back. "But...you were very generous to bring me a present. A...A good present, even."
America drew back enough to show Russia his smile. "It's gonna be awkward, like I said. With this invasion. This detente thing is, you know, that's over with. But...we can be grown-ups, right?" America cuddled his fingers into Russia's scarf. "I don't want to miss you again, beautiful."
Russia's lips tightened at that word. He would never be used to it. But he drew the backs of his knuckles gently down the side of America's neck, and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure we can."
+++
--The Soviet-Afghan War began on December 24th, 1979, when Soviet troops entered Afghanistan after the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan requested Soviet assistance against the Mujahideen resistance (note: America calls it an invasion. Russia does not). The war would last for nearly ten years. America did not stay uninvolved. The day Soviet forces arrived in Kabul is generally seen as the end of the Détente.
--On a more cheerful note, rock music in the Soviet Union finally gained momentum in the 1970s due to increasing cultural influence from the West.
+++
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.